


Of Monsters and Magic

by SmallShrub



Category: Shovel Knight
Genre: Attempt at Worldbuilding, More Dramatic than Comedic, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 146,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallShrub/pseuds/SmallShrub
Summary: Plague of ShadowsAU.You find yourself wandering through strange lands, trying to recall anything at all. You're no adventurer but you seek answers regarding your condition. A fateful - or rather explosive - encounter with a certain knight may be exactly the key to your forsaken memories. And perhaps, under his guidance, you will learn to fend for yourself in these trying times...





	1. The Bumbling Fool

**Author's Note:**

> So. This will be not only my first published work, but also my first plunge into the second-person point-of-view. I must admit I enjoy reading stories which work to include the reader or adopt a similar fashion of writing. Even so, I don't really care for the whole (Y/N) fair, so expect little to none of that. 
> 
> Also, please tell me if there's a typo or something; I'm probably the furthest from perfect and my grammar is not the best! With that, here we go!

You ignore the incessant chirping of the morning birds and relentless humming of insects in the wind as you trek onwards to a destination yet unknown. The chill of the morning sets into your bones as if you were soaked through and through. You stare disdainfully down at your figure, noting your clothing – more like scraps – wasn’t fit for this type of weather. 

Huffing irritably, you continue walking alongside your path in some hope it will bring you to a town with other people and, perhaps, answers.

A particularly shrill screech pierced through your ears, causing you to wince and throw an angry glare toward the tree you thought the sound originated from. It seemed to work considering no other avian decided to continue their incessant screaming. Then again, it was only due to the birds’ relentless chatter you awoke in the first place; it was hard to ignore their morning cries.

You can’t help the sigh that comes out when you recall how you sat like a lump on a stump, dazedly coming into consciousness after apparently falling asleep on a pile of dirt. Not only did you sleep on the ground, oh no, there was also a bed of grass underneath you so when the morning fogs came and went, your poor clothing soaked up the dew like a sponge. Coupled with a chorus of singing birds, the entire scene was ridiculous.

It strikes you and incredibly unsanitary to be sleeping on the ground, but you don’t exactly remember how you fell asleep the night before. Not that you don’t really remember anything before this morning either, nope. 

Another glower sets into your face and you speed up your pace on the well-traveled road. Common sense dictates a path outlined by seemingly endless grasses and trees must mean it was laid on purpose and, therefore, a road. A road is a manmade construct to alleviate the pains of travelling from one settlement to another, and settlements meant people. Actual _people_.

You may not remember a lick of anything, but you certainly weren’t a schmuck. 

Content you would eventually happen upon another individual traversing the same path or a town filled to the brim with people, you kept walking forward under the morning sun.

**—**

“State your business! And if you’re here to beg, then I insist you leave immediately.”

The man wearing a full suit of metallic armor held out a single hand, helm pushed upwards and revealing his narrowed eyes and a single raised brow. He’s clearly waiting for a response and you can’t bring yourself to spit anything worthwhile out.

You pause thoughtfully but your mind is racing. Something was decidedly… _off_ about, well, _everything_. The deepest fragments of whatever subconscious memories you still have tell you many things about what you’re currently seeing, and many of them don’t make sense. 

You’re absolutely sure men in armor – knights – aren’t a normal everyday sight wherever you’re from. The cobbled streets and wooden homes of this town – a village – isn’t the norm for how settlements are built; where were the larger than life buildings, made of stone and concrete? And you distinctly can’t recall the semblance of seeing horses and deer wearing elegant gowns prancing around like nothing was out of place.

No. You’re pretty certain that where you’re from, horses and deer are _not people_. 

But there can’t be any other explanation, considering a few ladies with either horse or deer bodies are standing a few feet away, hiding behind their pretty parasols and fans as they glance at you and murmur between themselves. Well, that’s not at all subtle.

You try your hardest to not stare at their congregation and turn back toward the man—the knight. You take a small breath and look down at your ragged clothing and empty pouch hanging limply by your side, understanding but miffed he assumed you were a lowly beggar. 

Perhaps the most frustrating thing is knowing how different you are, yet the clothes you wear bear no hint at your true home; rather, they look like any stereotypical garb for this apparent time. A bland, ivory tunic paired with equally dull, tan leggings and ragged boots to match. A beggar indeed.

You sigh for what seems like the umpteenth time today.

Deciding honesty is probably your best bet, especially considering the knight’s hand rests on a probably real sword, you try and gather your thoughts. You hesitantly look back up at the knight’s exposed eyes.

“Um.” Great start. You’re a genius. “Uh, I—well…”

The knight looks completely unimpressed as you fretfully stumble over every single word trying to come out of your mouth. Finally, you sigh and idly scratch your head in frustration. Even if you had all the book smarts in the world, they certainly weren’t helping you speak properly. 

You try again, this time with a different approach. “Can you please tell me, uh, where this is…maybe?”

Well. At least it was a complete thought. Congratulations. 

The knight offers a quizzical glance in your direction before waving at another passing knight entering the village. You cut back the flare of indignation for outing you for your appearance, deciding it’s pointless considering you were essentially at the mercy of this world and extensively its people.

Particularly the people who carry real weapons on them at all times. Even if you could only take so much unfairness, you knew you couldn’t really do much of anything. At least, if you wanted to keep all your limbs in tact.

Returning his attention to you, he replies, “This is Pridemoor Village, now unfortunately ruled by the usurper King Knight and, by extension, the Order of No Quarter.”

That’s…quite a lot to take in. The knight seems to disregard you as you try and dissect all the words from his apparent rant. Just who was King Knight to have dethroned the real king through force? And what the heck was the Order of No Quarter?

Voicing your latter concern, the knight’s eyes widen and his brows almost shoot off his face with how surprised he looks. After a moment of silence, he quickly gathers his senses and blinks rapidly at you. “You mean to say you don’t know the Order of No Quarter? Are you truly that oblivious?”

Disgruntled but none too surprised, you scrunch your nose at his incredulous expression. You offer a half-hearted shrug in response. While you didn’t know what the Order was and who make up its members, this King Knight an exception, you weren’t so dull as to not put it together.

Really? Order of No Quarter; rather, Order of _No Mercy_? Obviously evil, power-hungry and obsessed with conquering any land they possibly could. At least, that’s what your ruthless imagination conjured.

Growing more and more impatient, you muster a deadpan expression and look up at the knight. “While I can only guess—” You take a second to roll your eyes, fed up with this man, before continuing, “—at their motivations, I don’t _know_ since I don’t _remember anything_.”

Another round of silence greets your ears and it takes all your willpower to not scowl at the knight in front of you.

“You mean to say,” he begins, clearly bemused and maybe a bit shocked, “You have amnesia? And you are being completely truthful regarding this matter?”

You can’t even muster up the energy to glare. You just sigh and simply nod.

He gazes at you with an indescribable manner, silently motioning to something behind you. You turn and spot the large, looming structure which seems to spear through the drifting clouds above. Although the details are indecipherable given the sheer distance of the structure – it was merely an ever-present shadow in the backdrop of the sky – something seems…familiar.

When you first glanced at it beyond the tops of the trees lining your earlier path, it took your breath away. Its height sparked an inherent interest in you, and a word immediately popped into your mind but it never solidified into an understanding. All you recall is the word began with “sky” while being proceeded by “scrap–” or something to that effect.

An indescribably tall structure, built larger than life itself. For some reason, whenever you pictured a town you thought of similarly huge buildings of stone, metal and granite. 

Staring at the structure now, a strange feeling wells deep in your gut but you ignore it. You wait until the knight besides you speaks again.

“Do you know what that is?” He asks not unkindly. In fact, he seems almost wary.

You don’t know how to answer. Does he mean literally, because then it’s just a really tall building. You peek at his pensive eyes still staring beyond the village and assume he means the figurative answer, in which case you don’t know. You shrug again, unable to hide how confused you feel about this discussion.

The knight breaks away from the looming structure and redirects his intense stare at you. “That is the Tower of Fate.” He takes note of your unchanging expression and goes on. “Very few who dare enter never come back out. It’s where the Enchantress dwells, now.”

Feeling more confused than ever, you hesitantly ask, “Who’s the Enchantress?”

The knight stops and offers a quick stupefied look at you before soundlessly shaking his head. “You truly don’t remember anything, do you?”

Not sure if it was rhetorical or not, you don’t respond and wait for him to answer your question. He does so after another pause. “The Enchantress oversees the Order of No Quarter; they are her pawns, so to speak.” He angrily huffs. “Her knights take over every piece of the valley they can; those spineless whelps, hiding behind her magic.”

As the knight stews over the Order, your patience is wearing thinner by the second. Once he finally stops the heated whispers under his breath, no doubt cursing the Enchantress and her knights, you outright ask, “Can I enter the village yet, or…?”

When the knight offers you a pitiful stare, an icy dread begins taking root in your stomach. You’re pretty sure you know where this is going, and it doesn’t ease away your worries.

He begins with a rueful, “I am sorry, truly, but given your appearance I cannot allow you entrance.” He halts your sharp retort with a raised hand. After closing your mouth he goes on like nothing happened.

“With the Order out and about doing as they please, the risk remains that you were a beggar or otherwise unsavory before losing your memories. And…” The knight trails off, looking at the congregation of horse and deer ladies who’ve been eavesdropping the entire time, “…you would likely upset the residents and make them feel unsafe.”

Almost as if cued, the noble ladies share a single, fervent nod and continue staring at you warily. You return a heavily displeased scowl before turning away from them, refusing to play into the role of 'unsavory' anymore. It wasn’t like you wanted to look like a ragged street rat.

Sighing ruefully, you glance back at the dirt path you traveled along all morning.

Noting your discontentment, the knight offers a possible direction. “If you need aid, I’ve heard of a chivalrous hermit who lives beyond the plains. I’m sure if you requested help from him he’d be eager to give it.”

Perking up, you look back at the knight with newfound hope. “Um, can you tell me where…?”

Nodding once, the knight looks behind you and states, “This path should lead you straight to the plains. From there, search for a single cottage amongst farming fields…or so I’ve heard. I wish you well on your way, and hope your memories return.”

After thanking the knight and bidding him a small but polite goodbye – take _that_ , you privileged animals! – you turn around and begin retracing your steps. 

**—**

You curse inwardly, tearing yourself apart internally for having no backbone to speak of. How else could you just walk away from a village filled with people who could answer your endless curiosity of the world you were in?

Well, that knight guarding the entrance did answer most of your questions. None of them bore any fruit toward recalling anything which seeming familiar, aside from the Tower of Fate hanging overhead constantly. Honestly, that monstrosity was the most familiar thing to you, and you didn’t even know _why_. How utterly stupid.

It was probably best you failed to mention it reminded you vaguely of something. Just would have added more fuel to the fire of getting you out of the village.

A ravenous growl breaks the silence of the afternoon setting. You offer your best glare down at your belly, hoping your seething expression will shut your stomach up. It responds with a louder growl.

Groaning, you try to ignore the sounds your torso is making and the empty pangs accompanying them. Worse was the fact you passed the place you first woke up what seems like hours ago, with no change in sight. It feels like you’ve been on your feet all day long; actually, that’s not too far from the truth. Hence why your soles seemed to throb with a heartbeat of their own.

Coupled with the fact the sun’s rays have been relentlessly beating down on you all afternoon, your mood plummeted faster than lead in water. Wait; was lead even close to the densest metal out there? Or was it water-soluble? You can’t seem to recall its exact properties, and the fact annoys you. 

As you converse with yourself about the various elements around you and their supposed properties, you notice a small pile of gravel resting besides the worn path. While the gray chunks of earth were drab as to expected, an array of sheen caught your immediate attention.

For all your knowledge, you’re almost positive gravel shouldn’t shine.

You approach the pile while ignoring your apparent obliviousness; how could you have missed this before? Reasoning that your prior trek wasn’t aided by the sun’s harsh light above – it was dawn at the time – you shield the pile from the overhead rays. You’re both surprised and delighted to see various colored jewels peeking out between the rubble.

A quick excavation later, you find yourself with a handful of various gems of different size, shape and colors. Well, those and the many silver coins you dug up too.

Though their precise purpose remains elusive, you know these are valuable one way or another. Pocketing them in a previously empty ragged pouch tied to your waist, you continue your path, keeping an eye out for more seemingly innocuous piles of dirt.

It’s only when the sun is far overhead and beginning its descent that you finally find some of your prayers answered. Like a miracle, an apple tree presents itself just beyond a fork in the road. You decide to shove that issue aside in favor of the deliciously ripe fruit hanging no less than a stone’s throw away.

Already salivating like a starved man – all too apt considering your predicament – you rush to the tree. Hastily, you begin your ascent, cursing your small stature all the while.

It takes a few minutes of careful maneuvering, but it’s all too worth it when you happily munch away at an apple. It’s tangy, sweet and above all satisfying. Only when you’re taking a bite out of your third fruit do you realize you’ve forgotten to spit out the seeds. You shrug to yourself, knowing the casing will prevent any possibility of cyanide poisoning, and go on ravaging the tree for its goodies.

Several apples later, you find yourself suitably full and you try in vain to wipe away your sticky fingers on your tattered leggings. Bothersome, sure, but you didn’t really care at the moment.

Climbing back down, you decide to return your attention to the fork in the road. You see a wooden stake with two signs posted, thanking it mentally as you approach it.

All your hopes were instantly dashed when, upon closer inspection, you couldn’t read a damn thing. The linear symbols carved into the worn signs were meaningless to you, and the only thing decipherable were the arrows pointing to each side of the fork.

Great. Not only were you a beggar looking for free aid, now you were an _illiterate_ beggar.

…It’s also pretty strange how you can speak their language and understand it but can’t read it. You shove the train of thought into the recesses of your mind to ponder another time.

You stare at the signs for longer than you’d like to admit, trying and failing to get some semblance of understanding from the various scribbles. Even the length of the words were practically identical!

As you idly tap your chin in thought, you peek down both sides of the path and meet the same setting you’ve seen all day: dirt road, tall grass, even taller trees. How repetitive.

For all your smarts, none of them were apparently suited for surviving off the land. Well, whatever; you’ll make due with what you have. 

Knowing that if one path was unfavorable you could simply retrace back to this fork and take the other, you randomly decide to take the left path for no reason whatsoever. It’s only after a few steps your foot skips off the ground and collides painfully with a short rock sticking out of the path. Unfortunately, your balance was also a rather underdeveloped skill. 

You practically fall on your face, catching yourself on flailing arms just in time. Knowing no one was really around to watch your spectacular crash, you slowly dust yourself off and climb back to your worn, achy feet. Releasing a few curses make you feel slightly better, but a loud guttural growl-turned-yell makes you feel even better. The indignant squawking of various birds at your abrupt scream makes you feel even more content.

Releasing a bit of steam always helps, and considering your only audience were the birds from this morning, you could care less.

With newfound motivation, you move on.

**—**

God, you hate _everything_.

Everything that could have possibly gone wrong did.

You were just minding your own stupid business and then some sort of green blob thing jumped out at you from a patch of tall grass. Startled – because why didn’t that knight from before warn you about the goddamn monsters – you fell backwards only to land on another stupid blob. 

And who would have guessed your surprised cry attracted the attention of a nearby dragon. There was no other way to describe the thing; it was lizard-like and green, had two bat-like wings it used to fly and dive down at your prone form, and had stupidly sharp claws it used to scratch at your arms. Also, it was basically as big as you, so. Not like you could’ve done anything about it, really.

You struggled to get away from the sticky green slimes and diving dragon, finding solace in a nice-sized tree limb which had fallen. You swung that piece of wood as hard and fast as you could, adrenaline fueling your wild attempts to defend yourself. 

After a moment, the couple of green slimes bouncing around your feet apparently perished after you landed a couple of good hits, gone in a poof of white smoke. Thankful for their death but still thoroughly aware of your bleeding arms and the dragon which wounded them, you looked up only to see the stupid thing preparing for another dive.

In your haste to put some distance between yourself and the rabid dragon which was strangely hell-bent on making you suffer, you sprung yourself backwards and hopefully, out of its range. 

Turns out it wasn’t such a great idea.

Maybe it was because of your adrenaline-induced self-preservation madness, or more realistically because the sun was already descending and receding below the tree tops, but everything was dark. Not that you were observant or anything, but you failed to spot-check the boulders immediately behind you.

In short, gravity won the confrontation between you and those blasted rocks. To make matter even worse, you also failed to notice the craggy cliffside the path was precariously adjacent to.

Yet again, gravity won and you tripped right off the edge of the stupid path.

So, in summary: everything sucks. At least the dragon stopped attacking as soon as you plummeted.

You try and fail to pick yourself off the jagged rocks beneath you, hissing in pain as your entire body seemed to throb in tandem with your heart. Bracing yourself, you force your body into an upright position, cursing inwardly while heaving a shuddering breath. Although a deep, aching pain pressed into every crevice of your body, no movement bore an unwieldy pain.

Grateful you were lucky enough to not have broken anything, you take stock of your immediate surroundings. Just more boulders and stones strewn about; with hardly any light in the dusk sky, you couldn’t tell if there were any precious jewels or coins laying about either. Even your trusty stick was nowhere to be seen.

Looking back up at where you were prior to being assaulting by sentient slimes and flying overgrown lizards, you see a ledge and a surprisingly vertical wall preventing you from attempting to climb back up. Well, that certainly puts a dent in your plans.

You scrunch your nose, recalling how mistaken you were to assume you could just walk back to that fork if the path you chose was unsound. Just didn’t factor in the whole 'falling into a ravine while being hunted alive by monsters' deal. What an amateur mistake on your part.

Scoffing internally, you begin slowly prying yourself off the rocky ground, clenching your teeth as more aching pain assaults your senses. It takes a minute, but you eventually manage to get to and stand on your own feet without the wall to support you.

Step one complete. Now onto the second: walking.

Least to say, your legs were wobbly and probably bruised six ways from Sunday…as the rest of you body was. But you managed, deciding to stick close to the wall anyway as you inched forward bit by bit.

You’re unsure of where you’re heading – that hermit in the plains was probably the other way, knowing your pitiful luck – but you can’t waste these last minutes of light under the dusk sky. Common sense would dictate other monsters would probably be more violent at night, so first you should try to find a safe, secluded location to rest.

So you limp onwards as far as you can before night completely blankets everything around you. With the last dregs of light provided by the stars beginning to shine above, you spot a small cavern dug out of the cliffside.

It’s a bit snug but it’ll do. You crawl into the small opening and curl up as best you can, conserving what little body heat remained after your adrenaline-induced haze. It takes only minutes for the nightly chill to creep into the cave and settle into your bones, just like in the morning.

Shivering and mind tired with fatigue and pain, you close your eyes and fall into a fitful sleep.

**—**

While you may not be able to recall your memories, all these new ones seem to be just of you walking. Everywhere.

Another sigh bites past your lips as you collectively wish for the aches in you body to miraculously stop and to find some semblance of peace. You’re sick and tired of trudging along all these godforsaken dirt paths that don’t even have the dignity to look different.

“Pfft.” You can’t really contain the stilted laughter bubbling up your throat. “ _Dig_ -nity. Ahaha.”

Maybe you deserved to snap your neck during that tumble you took the previous night. 

Disregarding your self-admitted terrible sense of humor, you limp on, hugging the same cliffside you fell down in some hope it will eventually lead you to either another food source or fresh water. The only thing you’ve drunk since waking up with virtually nothing were the fragrant, sweet juices from the apples.

At least the morning sun was beginning to warm you through. Who knew it would be so ruthlessly cold hunkered down in a rocky cavern with the stars – and probably unseen monsters – as your only company?

Aside from that, you were pleasantly surprised to find your wounds to be in sufficient shape. The various scratches along your forearms have begun scabbing over, but the bloodstains on your shirt have already set, most likely. And looking at yourself with the sun’s light proved all you had were minor injuries, all things considered; a few scrapes here and there, even less cuts, and a plethora of bruising with a lovely shade of purple.

Coupled with the fact you didn’t pass away in the night due to some internal injury you couldn’t really take into account, all your viscera were for the most part unharmed. Probably. Hopefully. Well, no internal bleeding, at least.

It’s after what feels like an hour when you spy something shimmering in the distance. Hastening your snail’s pace, you find that sure enough, the lights glinting back at you are bobbing along with the stream’s current.

“Thank goodness.” Your voice sounds terrible, even more than usual. Raspy and completely dead.

You struggle away from the wall and manage a few steps toward the small but welcome creek, wobbling on unsteady legs like some newborn animal. The faint image of those ladies with deer and horse heads briefly comes to mind, and you wonder if they’re born like the same animals you vaguely remember. Then you collapse in front of the water and those thoughts disappear like they were never there.

With trembling hands and fingers, you reach forward and cusp them together. You dip your make-shift cup into the flowing water, nearly sighing in relief as its cool tendrils gently rush past your fingertips. 

You relish the gentle bobbing water held between your palms for a second before gulping it down. The water is refreshing as it washes down your parched throat, and you reach back for another sip. Or several.

When your throat no longer feels like the dry dirt you’ve been traversing for the past day and a half, you take a quick look around you. No monsters, and certainly no people; you’re only company is this babbling brook and the songbirds tweeting away without a care in the world.

Hesitantly, you remove your boots and dip your toes into the cool water, relishing the feeling of the current. Noting that nothing was attempting to bite or otherwise maim you underneath the opaque surface, you push your legs deeper into the water until you feel soft sand beneath your soles.

Throwing away what little restraint you still have, you shove yourself off the creek’s shore and nearly submerge yourself in the process. It’s chilly but not unpleasantly so, and the current makes for a somewhat serviceable substitute for a bath; you can’t remember the last time you cleaned yourself. The thought makes you shiver.

You take a few minutes to dip beneath the water’s surface, clawing at your scalp and skin to hopefully dislodge all the sweat, dirt and blood from your…adventures. It’s just a little added bonus your clothes would also be somewhat cleaned as well.

Once satisfied with your make-shift bath, you climb your way back onto the shore, shivering from the cold air hitting your damp form. You figure you’ll wait here for a bit and allow the sun to dry you off. 

You idly stretch and notice with some muted glee your joints aren’t nearly as stiff as they were when you first woke up in that poor excuse for a cave. Looking down at your soaked clothes, you also notice most of the dark stains on your tunic have washed out. It’s almost like everything isn’t as terrible as you thought.

…you really shouldn’t try your luck by thinking things like that.

All in all, it takes about an hour or two to fully dry out under the sun’s progressively warmer rays. Glancing upward, you take note of the sun’s position – about noon or so, if you had to guess – and decide to move on.

You’re happily walking alongside the same cliffside when you happen upon another, entirely different pit. Carefully, you nudge toward the edge and peek down into its depths. 

Spikes. Countless spikes lined up in a single layer.

…what? Was that supposed to be natural? And was that a skull staring back at you?

Something about this causes a strange feeling of déjà vu in the back of your mind. You can’t pinpoint exactly what your subconscious is trying to tell you, but these spikes – at least, their apparently deliberate placement – also seems eerily familiar to you. Like they’re meant to dissuade others from venturing somewhere near them, or something.

For some reason, another entirely different word pops into your head, and unlike last time, it stays long enough for you to fully remember it. But what did a 'dungeon' have to do with this death trap? Weren’t those meant for holding prisoners in cells, more than likely in the basement of a fort or other large structure?

Well. It’s not like thinking about it will help you on your way.

Ignoring the ridge dropping off into an even worse pit than the one you fell off before, you make your way back to the same cliff and hobble alongside it.

You manage to find more piles of glimmering gravel and pry some silver coins and even a few beautiful jewels from them, dumping your treasure into your pouch. You don’t know what kind of gems these are, but they’re cut in such a meticulous fashion it’s difficult to even think they’re natural. Besides, weren’t rare ores like these supposed to only form under high pressure with specific conditions?

The little jingle at your hip with every limp you take makes you lose interest, instead finding a simple joy in collecting these pieces of pretty. Although unsure of their abundance, you’re certain they will prove useful in time.

You stew on many things as you continue along the path, from the strange inscriptions on your coins to the tower which always seems to be watching over you. You think back to your conversation with the knight and find it absurd how you can speak their language but cannot read it.

Then, like an afterthought, you think about this supposed 'chivalrous hermit' and wonder if would have helped you. You seriously doubt you’ll ever meet this mysterious stranger, but you hope he truly as kind and selfless as the apparent rumors make him out to be. People like that are hard to find in the world.

You shake your head at the intrusive thought like it would force it out. You know full well your situation isn’t all too great, but your pessimism isn’t going to do you any favors anytime soon. Well, okay, maybe being paranoid can save you in a tight situation, but that’s when it’s appropriate, and—

God, just shut up and conserve your rambling for another time.

You can’t stop the angry huff at your own stupidity and perchance to think things to death. Really, you shouldn’t be wasting your energy on imaginary conversations where you’re the only participant.

As if to exemplify your suffering, your stomach growls loudly. A forlorn sigh is short to follow.

You’ve managed to worm your way besides the cliffside for hours on end, eventually hiking back up onto the original path once the opportunity, rather, slope presented itself. The forest lining the dirt road dispersed into tall grass which gently waved with the breeze. The Tower of Fate still hung ominously in the background.

So really nothing’s changed, save for there being less trees. Looking over the horizon, you see more hills with even more grass – maybe these were the plains – but spot no cottage or house.

You take note of more suspicious cliff edges. Taking the time and effort to glance down into their abysses proved one thing: this path was _riddled_ with spikes. They were just everywhere.

Nearby stone walls also have strange impressions in them, like there’s supposed to be some sort of machinery inserted but is strangely absent. Another word introduces itself to you, but you have absolutely no clue what an 'elevator' is. Looking down at the endless spikes below the empty rail, you’re sure it doesn’t really matter too much.

Much to your chagrin, the scenery remains mostly stagnant. There’s more deadly pits, more potential ways to die and even more spikes. It must have been sheer, stupid luck to have fallen into a pit without spikes.

A muffled sound echoes off in the distance, followed by the tiniest tremor beneath your feet.

Was…was that an explosion?

Sure enough, more similar sounds ricochet off the nearby walls of the path’s latest pit of doom. You have barely enough time to register the reverberations beneath your feet are also growing before another, decidedly non-muffled _boom_ sounds right by you. 

Any rational thought you might have had is thrown out the window the second you lay eyes on the most ridiculous sight you’ve probably ever seen. Considering the deer and horses in dresses from yesterday and your limited memory reservoir, it might not be _that_ bad, but—just _why_.

Maybe this is what you get for hovering by a pit lined with endless spikes.

From the split-second glance you got, there was a – a person, maybe? – sailing through the air with accompanying bangs and booms, those in tandem with complementary bursts of green smoke and…giggling…? What even—

“ _Hee hee_ …! _Hee_ —wait, what—” 

Yeah. Your thoughts exactly.

Then you nearly get impaled when the laughing lunatic sails directly into your gut. 

The two of you fly backwards from the sheer momentum in a tangle of limbs. Once you stop skidding along the dirt road, you notice with a subdued relief your assailant managed to pry themselves away from you. Honestly, you were more upset about the fact their direct hit made your already empty stomach feel even worse.

Groaning in agony – how many times did you fall in the past day? – you idly clutch your middle and sit up. Dazedly, you look up and into the…eye-holes of the person’s mask. The person’s plague doctor mask. 

No wonder that thing hurt so much; it’s basically a wearable spike.

You continue the staring contest for another second or two before the stranger nervously titters. You notice their garb seems to emphasize the whole plague doctor thing and idly wonder if there’s currently some pestilence ravaging the lands. Then you remember all the explosions and laughing and think doctors probably don’t act like that.

Judging by their voice, this wannabe plague doctor is most likely a guy. Regardless, he doesn’t even really pause in his chortle-fest or even offer an apology or to help you up. Well, whatever; you’re beyond the point of caring.

You pry yourself off the ground and bring yourself to your unsteady, still relentlessly sore legs and look down at the guy. Wow. You’re actually taller than someone. _Amazing_. Then you notice how you’re not that much taller and your mood shifts right back into bitter resignation.

“ _Hee hee_ …! Um, didn’t – uh – see you there, _hee_!”

That much was obvious. Your unimpressed face makes him pause in his laughter. He than rakes up and down your bruised and battered figure, if the motions of his bird-like mask are anything to go by. 

Then he has the sheer audacity to snicker in your face. “ _Hee_ —! You look… _hah_ , half-dead!” 

Brain-to-mouth filter seems to be taking a break, so it seems. You don’t even think twice when you bite out, “Actually, I feel about double that, but thanks anyway.”

He answers back with the tiniest moment of silence before breaking out into a massive fit of laughter. His peels go on for about a solid minute if you had to guess. Just listening to him makes your own aching stomach pang with dull pain.

When this mysterious guy manages to quell his giggles, you nearly groan. About time.

It’s not like you tried to see your reflection in the babbling brook from earlier; the current was pleasant but still distorted your face so much you couldn’t make heads – _ha_ – or tails of your appearance. But considering you were basically an illiterate, homeless beggar, you doubt you’ll be winning any beauty contests soon.

You decide you’d much rather prefer this guy’s rambunctious laughter fits over the creepy, silent staring he was currently subjecting you to. Believing him to be not quite all there in the head, you play it safe and approach the situation like he was a wild animal: be deathly still.

It takes all your willpower to not giggle at your lame pun. Pfft, deathly; not like you had one foot in the grave already, what with falling into a ravine.

God you were so tired.

After a very long, very awkward moment, the guy sudden perks up and tilts his mask up at you. His strangely squeaky voice pipes up, “So, what’re gonna do…?”

Your confusion must have immediately translated to your face because the guy starts laughing again. Although it might have been endearing if not off-putting, the way this stranger apparently flung himself around with isolated explosions while miraculously remaining unharmed told you he was extremely dangerous. Or at the least could be.

Tread with caution, your common sense supplies from the back of your mind.

Right. Now was an appropriate time to be paranoid.

But this time around his laughter puts you on edge. It seemed…different from the otherwise genuine chortles he had at your 'joke'. Listening to your instincts, you furrow your brow and open your mouth to respond. But nothing comes to mind and you close your mouth like some idiot while his giggles peter out almost threateningly.

Trying to think of anything at this point, you open your mouth again. 

“Uhhh…” Again with the magnificent starts. Wow. Absolutely genius. 

“Um.” God, just spit _something_ out already. 

You offer a half-hearted shrug and go with your honest opinion. “I feel like there’s some sort of, uh, right answer to your question, but I don’t know what it is.” You wait a beat, going over your words mentally and concluding they were kind of rude. Trying to remedy this, you tack on a late “Sorry.”

With the deafening silence greeting you, you just want to waltz into the pit behind mister plague and impale yourself on all those spikes waiting below. You should never open your mouth again. It was just a disaster every time.

And then he surprises you by placing a finger to his chin, or where it probably would be under the mask, before tapping his foot. You stay quiet while he obviously thinks. Unsure of what to do, you idly shuffle in place to slow the numbness crawling up your ankles. Oof; yep, still sore.

It takes only a moment before he snaps his fingers - which were apparently green; _what_ – and points his mask back at your hunched frame. “ _Hee hee_ —! How strange…You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Now irrefutably branded both dangerous and crazy in your mind, you can’t help how your body tenses with his comment. It may have been dismissive, but you saw through the pretty pretenses and recognized the poison under them. It was a threat, clear as a cloudless sky. 

Your thoughts rampage in your mind, but you carefully school your expression into something more bland and unassuming. Taking his sheer gall to threaten you and his explosive capabilities into account, it’s clear this individual is hazardous and embraces the fact. Coupled with how your only information of this world came from that discussion with the village’s knight and his constant prattling about the Order of No Quarter…

Well. It just seems all too likely this guy standing right in front of you is probably a member. 

After all, the knights in the Order were supposedly running around causing senseless chaos. Regardless, it seems like everyone and their mother would know the Order well enough to recognize them outright if encountered; the fact you clearly didn’t places you as an outlier, and possibly a new victim. Besides, why would the village knight lie to you about these things when he had nothing to gain from it?

Deduce. Rationalize. But most importantly, _don’t show how much you know_.

Hopefully, the more oblivious you are, the greater the likelihood this plague guy won’t feel threatened and therefore will be less inclined to kill you. But if he truly was as crazy as you thought, then it probably doesn’t matter. You can’t stop the grimace your lips twist into at the thought. 

Steadily but surely, you lose your calm, cool and collected composure before heaving a large sigh. Your legs were shaking from the strain of being in constant, aching pain, and when mixed with the realization of who this person before you was capable of, well.

Ever so slowly, you inch your way down to sit on the dirt path beneath you. Once grounded, your tense muscles tremble with strain but their screams of agony begin to quiet down.

You glance back up at the plague masked-stranger to get his attention. You try to open your mouth with a retort, but he quickly beats you to it. His shoulders are already shivering like he’s about to burst any moment. Sure enough, tiny chuckles escape him as he says, “ _Wow_! Looks like the corpse is, _heh_ , finally ready to return to the earth, _hee hee_!”

…and there he goes again, laughing like a lunatic. 

But then he interrupts his own giggles with another lame pun at your expense. “Seems like it was a – _hee_ – _grave_ mistake to stand up! _Ha ha ha_ …!”

You don’t even try to hide the fact your lips press together into a thin line, clearly displeased with his sense of humor. Harder still was purging the reflex to crack a small smile at his stupid jokes; they were kinda funny, but you just weren’t really feeling it at the moment. Right about now, all you can feel is pain and suspicion. 

When his laughter dies down to a volume you know you can speak over with your limited energy, you manage to quip, “Seems like I should know you, but I can’t remember anything. Mind refreshing my memory?”

In truth, you weren’t that great a liar and as a result, never bothered to learn the tact which comes with the skill.

The stranger hums thoughtfully under his breath. “Amnesia, you say? _Hee hee hee_ …how _strange_.” He tilts his mask to the side and stares down at you. “Makes sense; look at you! _Heh_.”

Okay, that was pretty low. You were doing your best, damn it. Not like you wanted to wake up in a completely alien world without a lick of knowledge regarding said world. Everything sucks, and you just have to suffer through it. Like right now.

Your displeasure must have made its way to your expression yet again, because this plague guy snorts derisively at your haggard appearance. Then he carelessly tacks on, “But I can still make use of you yet…”

…well then. You certainly didn’t like how _that_ sounded.

He hums under his breath again as you try to ignore the sudden adrenaline coursing through your system and the resulting frantic heartrate. For all the utter nonsense this world has thrown at you over the past couple days, this guy had to be the worst.

Contrasting your taut muscles ready to release and possibly run, you slowly pick yourself off the ground and note how his mask’s beak follows your movement. Not wanting to invite him to kill or otherwise maim you – explosions were never a good thing, in your opinion – you maintain your stance in front of the stranger.

His slightly muffled but still clearly understandable voice leaks out from behind his mask. “ _Hee_. It seems like you already know your place. Good. Makes things even easier.”

…so you definitely weren’t going to try and run. No sir, absolutely not.

You wait with bated breath, shivering from how taut your muscles are yet disallowing them from acting on their impulse to _get away_. Because then you’d probably be reduced to an actual corpse, courtesy of this guy’s explosives.

As suddenly as the heavy atmosphere manifested did plague guy snap his fingers and dissipate it. You stare into the eye-holes of his bird-shaped mask. Indecipherable inky shadows return your gaze. 

“I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse…!” His reedy voice pipes up almost cheerfully. 

You feel your head tilt in confusion. At this point, you’re just curious where he’s going to bury your body once he’s done with you. Surely his words are too good to be true; there’s no way he could be beneficial for you in any way, shape or form.

“ _Hee hee_ —” The stranger begins gleefully, hand idly twirling his staff, “—How about you join my ranks and work for me?”


	2. The Anarchist Alchemist

You feel yourself blink stupidly. Of all the things to have happened…

Mister Plague, as you’ve taken to calling him since he _still_ hasn’t introduced himself, seems completely ignorant of your shock. In fact, he’s happily bouncing along in front of you, movements twitchy and sporadic. You can’t help but notice how quick he is for his small size. Then you remember he’s probably got quite the bounty on him so he’d have to be fast to remain free. 

Regardless, you’ve apparently found yourself an otherwise stable position in this world. Sure there are many detractors from working under a _wanted criminal_ , but at the same time you won’t have to worry about random monsters bullying you off cliffs or where your next meal is. 

You nearly groan when your stomach decides to make its emptiness known.

When the loud and frankly embarrassing growl stops, you watch as Mister Plague tries – and horribly fails – to stifle a snort. He briefly turns around and shoots you a mischievous look; at least, you think so given his mask.

“ _Hah_! Guess you really _can’t_ refuse free room and board in your position, I suppose.”

Even if your legs are quivering from strain and fatigue, you manage to shoot your discontentment back at him with an unimpressed frown. He giggles again before motioning you forward and you begrudgingly follow.

From what you understand, Mister Plague was out and about ‘collecting supplies’ when he literally ran into you. He then proceeded to laugh and threaten you in the same breath before offering you refuge. You agreed because he’d probably kill you if you hadn’t, and now you’re both on your way to meet up with a couple of his other ‘minions,’ as he called them.

You trail behind the little guy for what seems like hours on the same dirt path as earlier. A brief glance at the sky to take stock of the sun’s position proves you’re probably right about walking for hours. At least the warmth it provided was welcome.

“Surely you can pick up the pace,” Mister Plague pauses his skipping and turns back to look at you, “Or else I might have an actual corpse on my hands soon enough, _hee hee_!”

You sniff at him and swallow your grumbling, forcing your already trembling legs to move faster. It’s only when you’re basically side-by-side does he continue moving along, hood bobbing up and down with his sudden motions. 

When it feels like you’re nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion do you hear faint voices. Perking up, you notice a pair of strangely robed individuals conversing up ahead on the path. You strain your ears and manage to pick up snippets of their words.

“—The boss in on his way! Ugh, I hope he’s in a good mood. I don’t wanna get… _experimented_ on!”

“I know what you mean…Frankly, I just want to burst jump out of here.”

“Hey, wait a sec, who’s that—?”

Hm. None of that sounded very promising. Just what did you get yourself into…?

The duo immediately stops conversing when Mister Plague bounds up to them with you in tow. Up close and personal, you can practically feel the stares both robed strangers are boring into you from behind their flagrant magenta masks. It takes nearly all your will to not crumble under their likely curious looks, horrifically aware of your gruesome appearance. 

Mister Plague thankfully cuts in, redirecting their attention away from you. As he reaches into the noticeably bulging satchel resting at his waist, he quips, “I’ve got quite the surprise delivery for you two, _hee hee_!” 

Then he jerks a few vials containing an assortment of seemingly random materials – shining ores, both dull and bright powders, even what look like bone fragments – from his pouch. As hastily as he sorts through them he tosses them one by one at the two, who fumble to catch and store them in the bags hanging from their shoulders. When he deems his satchel empty enough, he nods once and glances at you.

“Ah, yes. Here’s the newest recruit; escort them back to the lab,” he stiffly commands. His two minions nod in rapid succession with a strained “Yes, boss!”

After letting loose a few giggles, Mister Plague tightens the cord around his vastly smaller pouch. Turning back to address the duo, tone chipper he states, “And don’t waste a second, you two! When there’s time to collect, there’s time to concoct! _Hee hee hee_ …!”

No sooner do the words leave his mouth does Mister Plague reach into his sleeve and pull out a rotund flask with a simmering green fluid inside. You think you hear him cheerfully murmur under his breath “Now off to the plains for some more – _heh_ – ‘resources’,” but you’re not too sure. You just watch in extreme bafflement as he thrusts the flask down as his feet before his entire body erupts into green flames. When they dissipate he’s no longer there.

Although the lack of an ash pile dashes what little hope you have, you’d like to believe he just incinerated himself. But then again, if it weren’t for him you’d probably starve out in these wilds trying to find some supposed ‘chivalrous hermit’. 

Then you realize you’re standing alone with two strangers. 

There’s a silence knit between the three of you, and no one makes a move to break the tension. Instead, you briefly take in their strange long hooded robes and plague doctor-like masks. Considering both worked under Mister Plague and now so did you, you wonder if you’ll be forced to wear the same get-up. Glancing down at your tattered scraps of cloth you call a tunic and leggings, you’re somewhat relieved at the possibility.

Mercifully, the taller of the two strangers coughs into their fist. He – if his voice is anything to go by – then breaks the ice with a rather dignified, “Uhhh.”

Well, not like your track record was any better. At least it wasn’t you this time.

Your hesitant stare shifts between both their masks, and you notice with some muted displeasure both are notably taller than you. Idly fiddling with the hem of your torn sleeves, you manage a small, “Uh, hello.”

Another awkward pause ensues. 

Thankfully, the shorter of the two reaches out a gloved hand toward you. As you return the gesture, they introduce themselves. “Hello. My name’s Styx. Pleased to meet you.” Styx then releases your hand and motions to the taller one. 

The taller one hunches his shoulders a bit before extending his own gloved hand, which you meet midway. A small shake later, he says, “Hi! You can call me Draak. And, um, same.”

You return their introduction with your own stunted version, omitting your name since you’re still unsure of it. Instead, you merely tell them you’re a poor traveler and leave it at that. 

Well, at least it’s a start.

**—**

The journey back to ‘the lab,’ as Mister Plague called it, was rather enjoyable.

Considering you were currently in the care of his two minions, you decided to place your trust in them based on their earlier chat. After all, why else would they spew such accusations at Mister Plague if it weren’t all truthful? Maybe it’s a bit childish on your part, but you tend to blindly put your faith in those who are themselves prone to being honest.

Of course, this disregards how…well, _friendly_ your time with both Styx and Draak has been. You three became steadily more amiable as you traversed the dirt path leading back to the village, filling the air with various topics of conversation.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find out everything eventually!” Draak chirps beside you.

You don’t immediately reply and look ahead of you, weary of any potential monsters waiting in the tall grasses lining the road. Your thoughtful expression leaks into a more subdued one, hoping your companion was right.

Sensing your apparent distress, Styx states, “Don’t worry too much about it. Let’s just focus on the small things right now, like getting you settled in.”

You shoot Styx a grateful look and sigh. “Thanks, you two. And uh, Mister Plague, I guess; I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for him.”

Both your companions share a look before Draak laughs while Styx shakes his head. Feeling the embarrassed flush on your cheeks, you huff and glower at the air in front of you. “Well, it’s not like the guy introduced himself or anything. Just laughed at me and offered me a place.”

As Draak continues trying and failing to hide his snorts between his guffaws, Styx turns to you. “…You really _don’t_ remember anything, do you?” You open your mouth to retort but he cuts you off. “You manage to run into a knight from the Order – who’ve pretty much taken over the entire valley – and _not_ recognize him? Wow.”

Almost like an afterthought he says, “And his name is Plague Knight.”

…at least you were sort of close. 

“I think I like ‘Mister Plague’ more, though!” Draak interjects, shoulders quivering with mirth. “It makes him seem less…I dunno, less threatening than he is.”

You scrunch your nose and comment, “So you guys weren’t really lying about the whole ‘experiment’ thing, huh?”

Bashfully, Draak replies, “You heard that…?” You nod once and he itches the back of his hood. “Uh, I know you’re new and all, but don’t be too scared! Plague Knight just kinda tests his bombs on us every once in a while…or takes some of our essence, whatever _that_ is…uh, and I guess—”

Styx blatantly interrupts Draak. “Your rambling isn’t helping.” Turning to you, he states, “I wouldn’t worry too much. Just know Plague Knight never harms us with the intent to kill or maim.”

From your limited interactions with him, Styx was kind of calm and cool. You feel like if you ever need someone with a level head, he’s the guy to go to. Dissuading your worries seemed almost effortless to him, and his logic worked wonders in easing the anxiety of your situation.

Beside you, Draak apologizes and shifts the large bag over his shoulder. “Anyways, I’ve been meaning to ask what made you accept Plague Knight’s offer so quickly…? You don’t seem too fond of him.”

As bluntly as you can, you tell the truth. “I woke up yesterday not knowing anything. I’ve basically been walking non-stop since then, and—”

Your stomach takes its cue and releases a massive groaning sound.

“—I’ve haven’t eaten since yesterday.” You resist the urge to bend at the nearly painful contortions your empty organ is doing. “I don’t really feel like starving to death.”

“Oh.” Draak’s mask rakes up and down your figure, pausing at your torn and faintly bloody sleeves. You’re reminded of your gnarly scabbed claw marks and the various bruises decorating your arms. “Um, if I may ask what happened…?”

You look down at your wounds and try to ward off the soreness around the crusty wounds. “I, uh, tripped.” 

Draak and Styx share another wordless glance before staring you down again, clearly disbelieving. You hobble alongside them at a fairly steady pace, but you know if you stop moving you’ll probably collapse. You must look _awful_ with your pitifully weak condition.

You open and close your mouth, trying to come up with anything that won’t make you out to be some bumbling idiot, but nothing comes to mind. Lacking all tact and disregarding your pride, you simply state your escapades.

“Um, I tripped and fell down a cliff, I guess.” You glance at your torn sleeves. “I was—uh, running from a dragon.”

You see Draak visibly wince whereas Styx apologizes for not having any health tonics on him. You can barely believe how genuinely helpful your two companions are, especially to a stranger in their eyes. You also wonder how they fit into Plague Knight’s ranks with their niceties, willing to hope some of his other minions are just as welcoming as both Draak and Styx have been.

“I-it’s fine,” You stammer while fiddling with the rips of your poor tunic. 

“Well,” Styx begins after placing a gloved finger under his chin in thought, “It’s probably a good thing Plague Knight took an interest in you. You’ll find out how to protect yourself while learning under him at the very least.”

Right. You think back to the snippets you caught of the small guy blasting through the air with green smoke and various explosions. You question your sanity when you think it would be neat to learn similar tricks.

As if reading your mind, Draak says, “Yeah! It’s actually really fun learning all about alchemy! And it’s even more fun to burst around and throw your own bombs!”

Woah, wait a minute. _What_? Your complete shock must’ve made itself blatant with how Draak releases a small chuckle while Styx sighs. 

You conjure up the idea of yourself ‘bursting’ and can’t help how your face contorts in concern. You think about those jumps with minute but controlled explosions Plague Knight did before crashing into you; coupled with what Styx mentioned about ‘burst jumping’ earlier, you think you’re on the right track. Then you recall how unnecessarily clumsy you are.

If what Draak says is true – and it most likely is – you would probably be landing yourself even more injuries from falling all over the place. Sounds positively _riveting_.

Pushing that thought aside, you decide to question the other part of Draak’s gushing. “Uh, so—” You begin, keenly aware your request will likely make you look even more oblivious to the world around you. “I don’t, uh…what’s alchemy…?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth you can’t stop the hot flush of shame when your companions exchange yet another look. You feel more stupid the longer they stay silent until you regret questioning anything at all.

Styx interrupts your moping. “Well, are you familiar with any sciences?”

Even in your fatigued haze you perk up instantly. “Y-yeah,” you stammer in surprise, “I love learning about the various sciences…but if I’m being honest, I find my strengths to be in the biological field; or any field that doesn’t require a lot of calculations…”

Draak interrupts your rambling with a couple chortles. “Heh, sounds like you’ll fit right in!”

Still confused but overall relieved, you heave a sigh. Styx continues the previous topic by turning to you and asking, “I gather you know little about…well, most things, but do you know what magic is?”

You ignore his comment about your severe lack of memories and pause. _Magic_ …? For some reason, the thought of it seems vaguely familiar but not as a concrete, universal law. No, you find yourself thinking about magic as if it just another moniker in a story, beguiling but decidedly fake. If something like that truly existed, then what was the point to the various sciences you feel devoted to at a nearly religious level? Where was the _logic_ …?

Catching on to your disgruntlement, Styx says, “Magic is basically in all living things. Think of it as a secondary energy source, but only a few are truly able to utilize it for their own purposes.”

You nod once in understanding. So it seemed like magic was ever-present and only a few could actively sense it and fewer could fully conduct it. Even if your knowledge of physics is rather limited – far too much mathematics for your tastes – you find yourself imagining magic like a current and those who use it as resistors…or maybe switches if they were actively aware of it and then used it? Hmm…

“Of course, there are ways to get around such specifics,” Styx waves his hand dismissively. Oh. Well, there goes your train of thought. 

“Regardless,” he continues, “Think of alchemy as the middle ground between magic and science. It utilizes the basic principles of magic but applied strictly to matter and its various interactions.”

…this was gonna take some getting used to.

Certain Styx senses how absolutely muddled you are, he goes on. “Alchemy uses the energy of magic for its scientific pursuits. As in the whole ‘equivalent exchange’ deal; you can’t make something out of seemingly nothing like with magic, but you can use magic to force matter into different states of being. That’s alchemy.”

Okay. That explanation makes _far_ more sense to you.

Draak then chirps, “Or an even more simple take is that alchemy is like chemistry, but with _way_ more explosions!” 

You can’t stop both the sigh and following grin when you think back to how frantic Plague Knight was when he was propelling himself all over the place. Yeah, sounds about right; crazy stunts for a crazy guy.

As Draak laughs and Styx shrugs his shoulders, you feel your lips tugging into a genuine smile. 

The conversation changes to one discussing Plague Knight and his various eccentricities, the air around you three jovial and homely. Happiness wells in your chest as you walk along the dirt path.

You could get used to this.

**—**

It’s nearly nightfall by the time you reach the edge of the humble village. 

Your stomach has stopped its incessant growling and you feel ready to pass out any second, if you’re being completely honest. The fact your soreness from your fall the previous day hasn’t subsided much if at all only furthers your suffering. Blearily, you slow to crawl when you notice your companions doing the same.

“Oh,” you begin softly, catching sight of a lone knight standing guard in the entrance, “That’s the knight who kicked me out for looking like a beggar.”

As Styx snuffs a small laugh under his breath, Draak tenses and audibly gasps in horror. “Wh-what? That’s so—how bigoted of him! I just can’t— _argh_!”

After finishing his small rant, Draak huffs irritably and idly shifts the large bag thrown over his shoulder. You can’t even find the energy to be thankful for his anger on your behalf.

Styx states, “Sounds about right. Farrels turns away anyone who seems just a bit suspicious, even if they’re carrying a weapon for self-defense…but it’s still kind of rude, all things considered.”

Before you can question where the lab is or if you can even bypass the knight, both Draak and Styx lead you off the dirt path and down a small hill, remaining mostly out of sight. It struck you as odd, but then you realize their distinct robes and even more obvious bird-shaped masks would place them as Plague Knight’s underlings. Right; you’re working for a member of the Order, or in more blunt terms, public enemy number whatever. 

You briefly wonder about all the hassle which will come with the position, but you can’t bring yourself to care at the moment.

The path isn’t etched out in dirt but the clearly shorter grasses pave a mostly clear-cut way. You trail besides your companions in relatively peaceful silence, idly watching the sun dim into shades of orange and pink as dusk nears. The Tower of Fate still looms even above the tree line, a constant shadow against the sky.

Eventually you reach a small dip between the hills and hear the faint bubbling of moving water. You approach the waterway until you find yourself before a massive stone archway with thick iron bars extending from top to bottom. If you were being honest, it looked like the entrance to a dungeon.

A quick glance around shows no spikes in the immediate vicinity. Good.

Styx and Draak approach the cobbled stones nearest to the bars as the former removes a stick of chalk from his sleeve. He stoops to the ground before drawing a neat circle with a few symbols. You watch in interest while Draak nods appraisingly. 

Turning to you, Draak whispers, “Pay close attention; here’s a sneak peek at the alchemy you’ll be learning!”

Although nearly dead on your feet, you feel yourself perk up. After a second Styx takes a step back and you watch the inscription begin to glow faintly. You continue watching even as it abruptly flashes with subdued crackles until is fizzles out completely like there was never a circle in the first place.

You can’t contain your sharp inhale. Where there was previously thick stones now stood a widened entryway built of the same stuff. Both Styx and Draak watch your reaction with the tiniest of laughs before entering through the newly crafted arch. You follow shortly thereafter.

Once on the other side of the bars, Styx turns around and repeats the process. A series of small cracks later and everything is the same as when your first arrived.

“ _Wow_ ,” you breathe. How in the world…?

Styx turns to you, pocketing the chalk in his sleeve. His voice is unabashedly amused when he says, “That was a basic transmutation. Just changed the bricks around so we could get past.” He lets out a stunted chuckle at your awed expression. “Don’t want anyone finding us out down here.”

At his words, you turn around and look at your surroundings.

Clearly, this lab of Plague Knight’s was stationed beneath the village; likely in the aqueducts if your suspicions were correct. Lining the canal’s inner walls were a series of torches which surprisingly lit themselves at your approach but flickered away as soon as you passed some unseen threshold.

Faintly, you could hear the chatter of other people. You paused and tried not to remember the condition you were in. It was already bad enough you looked like a beggar, but then your injuries probably made you out to be a corpse who resisted their own burial. Ugh. 

Before you could voice your concern, Draak gently places a gloved hand on your shoulder. You nearly finch at the motion when he turns toward Styx. 

“I’ll go help them get settled in; how about you tell the others we have a new friend? Oh! And—” with his other hand, Draak takes off his large sack and holds it out to Styx, who takes it without a word. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go organize the supplies.” Styx huffs as he lifts both rather large bags over his shoulders. “Besides, you’re probably the only one who can reach the spare robes; you’re freakishly tall like that.”

While you were inclined to agree with Styx – Draak was abnormally tall, a good foot and a half more than you – the latter heaves a sigh. “Then you wouldn’t be surprised if I told you doorways are my greatest enemy. Anyways—”

Draak turns to you without another word to Styx, who simply nods at you and walks away. 

Hand still resting on your shoulder but so gentle it doesn’t provoke the angry bruises underneath, Draak begins guiding you down a nearby corridor. You look around to see rows of tiny rooms lining both sides.

“These are the boarding rooms,” Draak explains, gesturing to the wooden doors indicative of the dorms, “All of us students live on site where we can practice alchemy in secret, for the most part. They’re kinda small, and maybe they’re repurposed cells, but they get the job done.”

Further down the hallway was multiple shelves stocked with a variety of miscellaneous items. Looking up, you spot neatly folded piles of green and magenta. Looks like you were getting fancy new clothes. Nice. Draak begins to shift through them before he picks out a few folded garments not unlike his own.

He gently nudges your back and you continue down the same hallway until you reach two door-less archways. You note a wooden sign overhead each, but the same indecipherable linear symbols meet your eyes. Still illiterate, it seems. 

“These are the communal washrooms,” Draak begins, pointing to the left archway, “Uh, I figure you might want to wash up before dinnertime.” He then hands off the garments to you before quickly saying, “You should wear these from now on; I promise they’re comfy!”

Draak then leaves with a chipper “I’ll check on you in a bit!” 

Without waiting, you turn around and enter the showers. You sigh in relief when you notice the individual stalls before approaching the closest one and entering it. While compact, it would finally provide you ample cleanliness if the bottled lathers and showerhead overhead said anything. It was charming in a way; rudimentary, but indoor plumbing was still indoor plumbing.

It takes a bit of fiddling, but you manage a lukewarm but overall pleasant shower.

Finished, you dry off as best you can without a towel and retract the robes from an overhead shelf. You pull the rather soft fabric over yourself and find Draak’s promise to be true; these _were_ rather comfortable.

Stepping out of the stall with your ragged beggar’s clothes in your arms, you feel brand new.

You notice an oblong mirror lining the opposing wall and decide to look yourself over. 

Sure, you got the chance to look over all your bodily injuries – and _yikes_ – but now you could finally see your face for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. The first thing which pops out at you is how sunken your eyes appear; the ghoulishly dark circles underneath them doesn’t help matters. In fact, you look like you got punched in the face with how _bad_ it is. Double yikes.

You suddenly find yourself wanting those plague doctor-like masks Draak and Styx wore.

Without taking another glance at yourself, you amble out of the showers and meet the empty hallway. You decide to take a quick peek in the other door-less room and are pleased to find similar stalls, this time with lavatories. For being an underground – literally _and_ figuratively, ha ha – lab, it sure was sanitary. Not that you were complaining.

You wait for only another few minutes before you see the familiar imposing figure of Draak walking down the hallway. Upon noticing you, he perks up instantly before rushing over. 

“Oh, I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting,” he hastily apologizes. You assure him you haven’t and he sighs in relief. “Thank goodness! Anyways, I figure I might show you your room!” 

Draak leads you down the hallway until you arrive at the last door. With a small creak he opens it. You peer inside and can barely make out any details before he snaps his fingers. Similar to the torches lining the canal's walls a trio of candles flicker to life, bathing the room in soft light.

Although cramped, the room is everything you hoped for. A small wooden desk and accompanying chair sits in the corner, adjacent to a bed lined with plain white sheets and topped with a single pillow. 

It almost seems too good to be true. 

“Welcome to your new home!” Draak cheers. 

Humbled, you manage a small “Thank you.”

He laughs once before replying, “It’s not me you should be thanking, it’s Plague Knight!” His voice then drops to a near whisper. “…just between you and me, the best way to impress him to make a _huge_ explosion! The boss _loves_ blowing things up!”

Considering you were already enamored with alchemy and what it could offer, you feel a wobbly grin make its way to your face. This was so exciting…!

“Okay,” he chirps with renewed vigor, “Let’s get you some food! And maybe a healing tonic or two while we’re at it.” 

Throwing your dirty clothes into the corner, you follow Draak out of the— _your_ room. You listen as he babbles on about how happy he is to be learning alchemy under Plague Knight, even going so far as revealing he was the latest apprentice before you showed up.

You make your way to a large room, taking in all the sights of various stone platforms lined with laboratory apparatuses. Cauldrons bubble away under the watchful eyes of a woman in a blue dress, numerous other robed individuals ran around carrying flasks at the behest of a—a horse, okay, and…what the ever-loving _hell_ was that _thing_?

“Oh, um, don’t mind Oolong. He just likes to play songs once in a while, heh.” Draak gently pushes you forward as you try and fail to pry your eyes away from the monstrosity. What the _fu_ —

The two of you merge into a small gathering of other robed people, some with their hoods and masks off while most continued to wear them. A few shoot curious looks at you, some even greeting Draak amiably; he was certainly tall enough to – heh heh – _stand_ out.

Ignoring your own hideous thoughts, you stand behind your taller companion in a makeshift line. Slowly but surely, you approach a table laden with a multitude of rations. Mimicking Draak, you pick up a piece of bread, cheese and stick of jerky under the stares of a few apron-clad minions. 

Cradling your goods, you follow Draak as he begins departing from the room. Although tables are placed around the area to imitate a cafeteria, he’s rather quick to leave and you don’t question him.

While leading you back to the dorms, he turns to you and apologizes. “S-sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable eating with a bunch of people around. But don’t, um, feel obligated to hang out with me; it’s fine if you want to meet someone new—” 

You cut him off by scrunching your nose in disdain. “No thanks. I feel more comfortable with you, anyways. Er, if that’s alright with you…?” 

“Of course! I’d love the company, really.” Even through the mask you can tell he’s happy at your admission. You return his enthusiasm with a tired smile.

As it turns out, Draak’s room is next door – _hah hah_ – to yours. 

“Welcome to my abode!” He announces as he shoves his door open. You nearly balk when you notice someone else sitting on his bed.

“Took you long enough,” the interloper says. The flat tone is all you need to recognize him as Styx.

“Hiya Styx! Sorry to keep you waiting; there was a bit of a line, heh.” Draak has to bow to avoid hitting his head on the top of the doorway as he slides into the unoccupied chair. You follow him and quietly shut the door behind you.

Styx pats the space next to him on the bed and you hesitantly sit besides the raven-haired boy. Honestly, you’re surprised his appearance seems to reflect his calm and collected demeanor; well, at least his eyes. They’re a cool green color which match his robes and overall pale complexion. The fact his deadpan expression seems natural only adds to his stoic mannerisms. 

Without prompt, Styx retrieves a small glass flask from his sleeve and offers it to you. “You should drink this; it’ll help your injuries heal faster.”

You thank him and uncork the bottle before doing as he said. The taste of the red liquid is fairly sweet with a slight bitter note, but it’s overall a pleasant experience. Although you were still decidedly sore and weak, you trusted Styx and the properties of the…’health tonic,’ if you recalled correctly. 

The three of you then settle into conversations not unlike those you partook in earlier on the road. You ravenously devour your meal and finally quell the pain of your empty stomach, much to the amusement of your friends. 

Friends…actual _friends_.

You light up at the thought, gleefully chatting with them for another hour or two. Styx then excuses himself for the night with the promise to help you out in the morning. You follow shortly and after bidding Draak a good night, you return to your own room.

You barely remember to turn off the candles by snapping your fingers before collapsing into your bed.

**—**

Over a breakfast of buttered bread, you learn a whole lot from Draak and Styx.

Apparently, working under Plague Knight is a lot like being a student attending class. Well, aside from the fact the little guy goes out and about for days on end and teaches every so often. Most of his minions don’t mind too much because it gives them time to work on their own projects. But even though Plague Knight comes and goes as he pleases, there are a select few higher-ups who you’re supposed to answer to in the meantime. 

The woman who you saw the night prior mixing a cauldron was the Magicist; she’s the one you had to go to for various magic-related potions and trinkets. 

If you never needed any miscellaneous alchemy supplies, the horse – who you learn is Percy – is in charge of organizing and distributing all supplies. Styx warns you to keep all chat to a bare minimum around the horse-man; he will never shut up otherwise.

Finally, if you ever have an alchemy-related question that can’t be answered by the available texts, Plague Knight’s partner Mona is the lady to ask for. Draak informs you she mostly keeps to herself and is rather apathetic, but alchemy is her passion so she’ll more than likely love to help. 

You recall the rather quick tour Draak and Styx took you on around the lab, introducing the various facilities to you in person. The large boiler room adjacent to the central quarters was both Mona’s and Plague Knight’s stomping grounds; pretty much off-limits unless you had a question for them.

It was also rather surprising to learn alchemy wasn’t exactly…endorsed by the general public, to say the least.

As Styx explained, alchemy is more or less used to transmute matter into different forms, where the most practical application is changing lead into gold. Considering lead is a common substance and the fact constructed gold isn’t much different from real gold, it was easy to swindle anyone who themselves weren’t alchemists. 

The fact alchemy was also notorious for crafting tools of…sketchy trades didn’t help matters. While it had the potential to be noble, its uses have found themselves primarily in thievery and evasion tactics.

You don’t really care about the whole underground thing. Then again, you know you probably had far less to lose compared to your fellow allies. Perhaps your missing memories are a blessing in disguise.

It’s a lot to take in, but you’ll manage.

Once you finish discussing the expectations of being Plague Knight’s underling, Draak and Styx escort you to another fairly large room adjacent to the central quarters. Although mostly empty save for a few other minions lazing about, you notice several raised platforms with hoops wound between them. Your trio settles besides a wall.

Styx displaces his satchel to the floor and removes a few vials, some containing powder and others liquid. Even odder was the single gold coin sitting alongside the glassware. When he pulls out an empty pear-shaped bottle, he states, “Since I’m in charge of you for now, let’s make you a bursting potion.”

You don’t say anything as his mask turns toward the various materials. He points to them one by one, listing their names and innate properties. You wonder if you should be taking notes but recall your only possessions are your current robes and a few jewels sitting in your room. Eh, he would’ve said something about if it were so important.

“The first step is making _aqua fortis_ ,” Styx states. “In order to do that, we have to carefully apply _chili saltpeter_ —” he points to a vial containing a white sandy powder, “—to _oil of vitriol_.” He then points to a small flask with a clear fluid.

You have absolutely _no_ idea what he’s talking about, but nod regardless. 

Styx then draws a similar circle as he did the previous night, but there’s more complex symbols. “I’m not all that great when it comes to burst jumping or throwing bombs,” he says while sketching, “But I’ve found myself drawn more to transmutations than general offense. This here is a stabilizing ring, since these are volatile ingredients.” 

You barely manage to quell your snigger. _Heh heh_ , ‘drawn’. 

You’re more surprised to find yourself excited rather than weary of the chemicals. After seeing a first-hand demonstration of Plague Knight flinging himself with explosives, you’re curious to learn similar things.

You then follow Styx’s commands as you carefully handle each component, eventually obtaining a flask full of a mostly clear solution with the barest yellowish tinge. “Great work!” he commends as he draws another stabilizing circle. “The more yellow it is the more contaminated it is…but this is beautiful for your first try.”

“I’m just following instructions; anyone can do that,” you reply, but still blush at the praise.

“You’d be surprised,” is all Styx says. “Now the next step is to transform this into _aqua regia_. Luckily for us, we only have to add this pre-made _acidum salis_ ; we practically have the stuff on tap.”

You continue the back-and-forth with Styx while Draak watches silently; he’s probably already done this anyway. When you’re done, the newly formed solution is a dark golden-brown color not unlike honey. It bubbles away inside the flask, and as you palm the glass you note the slight warmth of the reaction. Exothermic, of course.

“All that’s left is to turn this into fulminating gold.” With that, Styx flips the single gold coin at you and you fumble to catch it. “Just put that into the _regia_.”

You do so and watch the solution begin to froth around the slim coin. Smaller bubbles rise to the surface and coat the gold but the _aqua regia_ is clearly eating away the metal.

A warm contentment settles into your bones; it’s refreshing to witness brand new reactions.

No sooner does the solution stop bubbling – with the coin now dissolved completely – when Styx gives you a stoppered flask filled with a stagnant green fluid. “Green vitriol, often used as a buffer. Add half of it to your concoction at an intermediate speed while whirling continuously.”

You obey and watch as the golden-brown liquid slowly transforms into an olive green. Styx wordlessly hands you the strange pear-shaped bottle and you transfer the watery solution without spilling a drop.

Styx then requests the bottle and you hand it over. He places it into a brand-new circle, this one with slightly different symbols. The reaction is immediate; the circle crackles to life and flashes briefly, leaving a fine green powder where the solution was prior.

“And yet again, a beautiful sample of fulminating gold; great job.” Styx then looks directly at you, and although you can’t see his face you know he’s serious when he states, “This stuff is extremely delicate; don’t aggravate it too much or it’ll explode. But add the rest of the green vitriol like earlier save for the whirling and it should stabilize it into a solution.”

As gently as you can you follow his instructions while wishing you had worn protective goggles. But nothing explodes when you finish pouring the liquid into the bottle, noting the powder dissolved nearly instantaneously. 

Carefully, Styx draws another complex circle with additional rings and symbols. When finished he motions for you to place the stoppered bottle into the center.

Still holding the chalk, he explains, “This is an enchantment for the final product. Normally, this potion would only activate once before turning permanently unreactive, but this circle will endow the solution with unlimited use by rejuvenating its inherent properties.”

“It’ll explode more than once,” Draak summarizes and you nod in understanding. “Of course, there’s a small timeframe you can’t use it when it regains its explosiveness, but you’ll figure that out soon enough!”

…Okay. Your imagined scenarios of ‘bursting’ return but instead of perturbed you feel excitement. 

Styx then draws a final symbol and the circle activates. A quick _pop_ and sizzle later the circle vanishes, leaving the pear-shaped bottle sitting benignly on the floor. Styx takes it and replaces the stopper with a strange valve and hands it over to you. 

“There’s your burst potion; should last you until you break or otherwise destroy it.” Styx begins cleaning up the various empty vials. When he gets up and makes to leave, you bid him a hasty thanks while he replies he’s just doing his job. 

Once Styx is out of sight, Draak stands besides you and looks down at the stagnant green fluid in your flask. His voice is undeniable charismatic when he says, “Now let’s test your bursting!”

**—**

So, there’s good news and bad news.

Good news: you absolutely _loved_ sailing through the air, courtesy of your burst potion.

Bad news: you were, unfortunately, still a clumsy oaf who couldn’t stick the _damn landing_.

It’s already been several days since you first arrived at the lab, and you’ve practically done nothing besides practice burst jumping. You’ve already mastered aggravating the potion and releasing the valve on its bottle for that extra oomph necessary for bursting, the cooldown period is now instinctually embedding in your mind, and you could even chain multiple bursts in one extraordinarily long leap. But the landing? 

“Errgh.” You groan miserably as you pry yourself from the cobbled platform. Why the hell wasn’t anything in the room padded? The place was literally _made_ for practicing the art of bursting.

You hear Styx scoff as Draak offers a hand. After getting back up on your feet, Styx pries another health tonic from his satchel and hands it off to you. It’s basically become a ritual for you three: they watch you burst around, laugh at your tumbles, give you a health tonic every other hour, and you continue trying to land _without_ eating the ground in the process.

While you excel at bursting and flapping your wing-like sleeves for even more maneuverability, you gained too much momentum to really land on your feet. Well, that’s not entirely true; you can _land_ on your feet but then you tend to lose your balance before skidding across the floor until you stop or hit something which forcibly stops you. From how many you’ve been drinking, you wouldn’t be surprised if health tonics had replaced your blood at this point.

It’s a vicious cycle, really.

Burst potion in hand, you grumble to yourself and ignore the few other minions practicing. From what both Draak and Styx have told you, you’ve quickly become one of the best jumpers in most of Plague Knight’s underlings. Considering there were at least a few dozen of you, it was quite the compliment.

Draak motions above to several lifts lazily drifting from wall to wall. You follow his gloved finger and find it pointed at a chandelier of candles hanging off the ceiling. “Since you’ve already mastered horizontal bursting, why not try reaching that?” he says. “It’ll be good practice for vertical jumping.”

You can’t stop the irritable huff. “All I’ve been doing _is_ practicing.”

But you obey without another word and prime your potion by hastily shaking it. You jump as high as you can and press the button on the bottle’s valve, a familiar green explosion immediately springing forth and rocketing you skyward to the lowest lift. As your ascent stills due to gravity, you hastily flap your arms and gain enough extra distance to safely grab the platform.

Burst potion already aggravated and bubbling away, you time your next jump until the next platform is almost directly overhead. You repeat the same process for every platform, timing when to flap your sleeves for optimal distance and tweaking your trajectory when necessary. It’s pleasant to know vertical bursting is a far easier endeavor than horizontal when it comes to stopping. 

You’re just beneath the chandelier on the highest platform, prepping for another burst. As soon as your fingers graze the metallic rings holding the candles the room immediately plunges into darkness.

A few surprised gasps echo below you – oh _shit_ how tall was this room again? – and you feel adrenaline spike through your system. It was one thing to burst knowing where your target is, but to do so without seeing anything? You’d be lucky if you didn’t land on one of the platforms below and break your legs, if not your spine. 

Mind numb with panic, you try to hastily rationalize how to escape unscathed while gravity continues pulling you down to the unforgiving cobbled ground.

You twist your body and spread your arms, knowing your sleeves will slow your descent by a few seconds. You feel yourself begin to drift sideways as you recall the room’s basic design, knowing the platforms beneath you don’t fully extend to each of the room’s walls. You try to right your orientation but—

A sharp sting buries itself into your ribs as you accidently overshoot and ram into the wall. Hissing in pain, you quickly shake your blast potion until the warmth greets your gloved hand; it’s ready.

The room suddenly flickers back into the light.

Momentarily disoriented, you hurriedly blink to rid your eyes of the spots. You force them open against the air rushing past them and immediately recognize the small figure below you.

“ _Hee hee hee_ …uh, whoops! There was an, heh, _unforeseen_ reaction with the Dynamo Decanter—” 

You don’t have the time to think about his words when you realize there’s isn’t enough space between you and the ground to change your flight. Collision was imminent; unless—

Faintly, you catch the choked yells of both Styx and Draak. “ _Boss, look out_ —!”

Pushing the valve to release the pressure, you orientate yourself at the last second and burst sideways just as you were about to land on Plague Knight. You hear him squawk in surprise while your body is propelled through the air. It takes a few moments before you harshly crash into the floor. Like most of your landings, you skid across the cobbled ground until slowly coming to a stop.

A pained groan escapes you. While successful in shielding your uncovered face from being rubbed completely off during your less than graceful tumble, the soreness attests you will _certainly_ be feeling it in the morning. ‘Landing’ yourself more injuries indeed.

You sluggishly pry yourself from the ground, acutely aware your butt is up in the air because of your fall. The comedic position isn’t lost on your friends when you hear Draak and Styx snicker above you. 

Draak helps you to your feet as Styx pulls out yet another health tonic. Forget about that _acidum salis_ stuff; it seemed health tonics were primarily on tap around here. You gulp the concoction down and ignore the slight warmth spreading through your torso once finished.

Hesitantly, you look over to where Plague Knight is still standing. He’s mostly fine save for the remnants of your blast’s green fog lingering around him. He idly waves a sleeve to dissipate it before looking over at you. You gulp; you’re in _so_ much goddamn trouble.

Then you see him toss a familiar pear-shaped bottle up in the air and catch it. _Oh shi_ —you rapidly feel through all the pockets of your robes – why are there so _many_? – only to realize your burst potion isn’t in any of them; you must’ve dropped it after your last burst.

Wow. It’s been fun living these past few days but now you were utterly screwed and Plague Knight was going to _murder you_ —

“Uhhh,” You stammer in some vain attempt to apologize. “I-I, uh…I’m sorry—!”

He cuts you off by carelessly tossing your burst potion back at you and you blunder to catch it. It’s primed to explode but you know it’ll go away in a few seconds if you don’t irritate the solution further. You fiddle with your bottle while trying to stumble through another apology. 

Again, Plague Knight interrupts you. “ _Hee hee_ …that was some skilled bursting…!”

You must’ve hit your head on the way down. Why is he complimenting you when you nearly crushed him?

He places a finger under his masked-chin in thought. You can practically feel the stares of the other minions standing around as Plague Knight giggles under his breath.

Another moment passes in silence before he snaps his fingers. “You’re the – _heh_ – new recruit, right?” 

Belatedly you nod. 

His reedy voice is undeniably smirking as he utters, “I think I know the _perfect_ assignment for you, _hee hee hee_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! I like to try and explain things, even those which would probably lack any sort of logic...probably got carried away, too.
> 
> Anyways, just setting some things up here. And yeah, decided to have some fun and do something with those two minions at the beginning of the game. Why not, y'know?
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	3. The Apparition

While catching Plague Knight’s attention could go either way, you were absolutely _certain_ it couldn’t lead anywhere good. And your hypothesis was proven correct after another few days being taught under his…eccentric methods.

That is to say, he was what you would call a 'sink-or-swim' mentor. Y’know, _after_ the fact he already pushed you into deep water. You curse inwardly as you quaff another health tonic, hoping it will alleviate some of the nagging pain associated with burns.

A hand offers a half-hearted pat on your shoulder. “Look at the bright side; you’re done training under the boss and he’s given you permission to go collecting,” Styx quips besides you. You huff in response and tear into the jerky you snagged from the dining commons.

“Yeah!” Draak chirps from his desk, “And you’ve gotten so much better at bursting; you can even land on your feet most of the time.” You send a glare to his mask and he laughs at you. 

“Hmph,” you derisively snort. “I just wish boss-man didn’t throw _bombs_ at me; there’re other ways to get me to burst _without_ directly threatening my wellbeing. And he _really_ doesn’t have to cackle like a madman when doing so.”

Dinner continues like this, wrapped in friendly conversation as the three of you commune in Draak’s room for the evening. Although they were no longer under any obligation to help you, the fact both Draak and Styx still hung around you is vastly appreciated. If you think about it, their continued presence was an anchor in your otherwise turbulent life. 

After the passing of more inane conversations with your dinner long gone, you heave a mighty sigh. “…uh, do you guys know what I can expect when I go ‘collecting’?”

“Depends,” Styx says. “For the most part, us apprentices go gather materials necessary for our alchemy. Most of the time we get common materials found near the lab while Plague Knight goes off and collects the rarer stuff; he’s pretty much the only one capable of hunting the monsters who drop it.”

He pauses and shrugs his shoulders. “Of course, we can only go if he gives us explicit permission…usually after we’ve proven we’re competent at bursting.”

“That about sums it up,” Draak interjects. Turning to you, he continues, “If you were wondering, that’s what we were doing when you first saw us at the plains.” Almost like an afterthought, he then adds, “Who knew blorb jelly was so important for making vitriol!”

You nod once and try to stop the grimace from showing itself. While you’ve already grown accustomed to the fact monsters roamed the land just as much as any adventurer, it was still humiliating to learn some of the weakest managed to bully you off a cliff. Well, at least you did manage to beat a couple of them into non-existence with stick. 

Styx then comments, “I gather you want to know the monsters around your quarry.” You nod firmly and idly fiddle with the pear-shaped bottle of your burst potion; you made sure it went everywhere with you.

Draak leans closer to you from his seat. “Oh yeah, I forgot to ask. Where is boss sending you? And what’re you looking for?”

“Apparently it’s called the Lich Yard.” Your nose wrinkles in distaste. “It’s south of this village and it, uh…I think Plague Knight mentioned it was right by another village. And I think I’m supposed to get some ‘soul water’ and, uh, whatever else is interesting…? I dunno exactly.”

Your rambling cuts off and a deafening silence greets you. Curious, you look at Draak but then realize his face is hidden by his mask; in fact, you’ve never seen him without it. He even eats with the thing on, somehow. Feeling slightly stupid at the realization you turn to Styx and find his face twisted into something between shock and disgust. If anything, he looks offended.

Well then. _That_ can’t be good. Styx never looked much of anything beyond constantly disinterested.

As if accentuating your growing unease, Draak then breaks the quiet with a tiny, “Oh no.”

Debating whether or not to voice your concerns, you open and close your mouth like a gaping fish. More silence greets you and the longer it lingers the more perturbed you feel. At the rate your fiddling is going, you wouldn’t be surprised if you accidently burst from how agitated your potion must be.

Mercifully, Styx decides to permanently dissolve the silence. Face mostly relaxed save for his slightly wide eyes, he states, “He’s making you a scout.”

Placing your barely simmering potion next to you, you instead grip your bright tabard. Figures the place called the “Lich Yard” would evoke this sort of tension. “What’s so bad about the place? I mean, aside from the probable fact there’s going to be a bunch of undead monsters.”

“That’s the domain of Specter Knight,” Styx bluntly states. At your confused glance he goes on, “Another member of the Order of No Quarter.” 

_Goddamnit_. 

As your face contorts into an ugly grimace, Draak helpfully comments, “B-but you should be fine! I mean, uh, isn’t Specter Knight known for keeping to himself…? He wouldn’t go after you…probably…” His voice trails off and he exchanges a quick glance with Styx whose frown flickers in response. 

“Whatever,” you quickly bite out. “Just tell what to expect and what to avoid, thanks.”

“Easy enough,” Styx states. “From what I’ve read and heard, the place is rife with caverns and dilapidated land masses; basically many places which will lead to certain death if you fall down them. If I remember correctly, Plague Knight also mentioned moving platforms like the ones we have.”

You nod along, fervently trying to remember this for tomorrow’s errand. So far, it sounds like the Lich Yard will prove to be further practice for your bursting; not that you minded. Instead of being in a relatively controlled environment, now you could _really_ test your abilities. The prospect seemed exciting…hmm, maybe Plague Knight was rubbing off on you. That probably isn’t good.

Draak cuts off your train of thought. “I’ve also heard it’s constantly dark around there; something about dark magic or something. Maybe you should be prepared for situations similar to the blackout?”

You nearly scoff at ‘dark magic’ but instead find yourself quelling a shudder at ‘blackout’. That particular stunt was fueled by an adrenaline-induced haze; not like you could pull of similar feats of aerobatic ‘finesse’ at will. Well, if anything, it’s just more practice…right…?

Styx pipes up, “As for the monsters, your prediction of undead is correct. Aside from a few outliers – mainly tadvolts – there should be a variety of differing skeleton monsters, most of which are boneclangs.” He pauses thoughtfully before snapping his fingers. “Right. I believe there are enemies called invisishades which can’t be killed since they’re already ghosts. Be wary if they disappear; they _will_ come back after a moment or two.”

“Okay. Is that it?” You ask. Draak and Styx exchange another quick look.

“Well, maybe this is obvious, but—” Styx frowns and narrows his eyes as he turns to you, “—try not to encounter Specter Knight. If you _do_ manage to run into someone wielding a huge scythe, you should probably run.” 

Dryly, you retort, “What would I do without you guys.”

…yeah, okay. What was this guy, the grim reaper or something? His domain was even the Lich Yard for crying out loud! It was like this world was trying its damndest to kill you for good; for all you knew there were probably endless spikes waiting for you at the place.

Ignoring your internal seething, you just drawl a sigh. “Thanks guys. I should, um, probably go get some sleep. I’m supposed to leave in the morning.” 

“Alright then. Goodnight and I hope all goes well for you tomorrow.” With that Styx replaces his mask to his face and takes his leave. You follow his example, bidding Draak a good night before leaving and softly shutting his door on the way out. 

Although your mind is rife with discontentment and stress for the coming day, you’re pretty sure you’re asleep before your head hits the pillow. 

**—**

You don’t know what you did to deserve Draak, but you were going to return the favor somehow.

Earlier, just before you had crept out your door to meet up with Plague Knight in the boiler room, he had poked his masked face out his own door. Quietly, he wished you good luck on your mission and handed you a plentiful satchel filled with various snacks for the road. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been sneaking extra rations at dinner,” he had playful said, and you swore you would abide by his wish. 

All in all, your morning was nowhere near as hectic as you expected. You met up with Plague Knight – who was conversing with Mona, if you recall correctly – and he greeted you, hastily gave you a scribbled map and told you to be on your way. On the way out, you glanced at the massive contraption taking up the majority of the room, noting a strange, almost ethereal substance floating in the largest vat. Well; not like it concerned you.

You happily much away on a piece of cheese, glancing around at your surroundings every so often; couldn’t hurt to be observant when travelling alone. Still, you couldn’t really read any of the scribbles pasted over the parchment. But you were smart enough to get to the Lich Yard even with your illiteracy.

While it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, the sky was growing steadily darker as you neared a decrepit settlement just as the map indicated. More ominous was the fact the place seemed abandoned with no other living soul in sight. 

Stuffing the rest of the cheese into your mouth, you replace your own mask and fasten your hood to it. Apparently, it was required all of Plague Knight’s underlings wear their masks when not in the lab. You didn’t really mind; it did prevent the rather noxious fumes of your burst from stinging your eyes.

The sky was practically pitch black when you arrived at the village. You look around only to see the wooden buildings in shambles, clearly rotting and not at all inhabited. Figures; who’d want to live in the Order’s turf, _especially_ the one inhabited by a reaper? 

A few empty flasks fill your cloak’s pockets, reminding you to collect some soul water.

With renewed vigor, you enter through a macabre gate decorated with scarlet angels. You try not to linger on the numerous gravestones scattered throughout the place and continue walking on the path in front of you.

Turns out Styx was right; there were tons of jagged landmasses separated by seemingly endless ravines. You gulp as you peek down one, not even seeing any spikes or ground. Deciding it was best to ignore the fissures in favor of living, you shake your burst potion and jump over them.

You notice a few large green lumps lying about on the platforms, but you mostly ignore them. Even when one manages to catch you off-guard and jumps at you, skin crackling with electricity, you pause until it’s close enough to be caught in your burst’s explosive cloud. You hastily jump away and watch as the blast pushes the giant frog off into an adjacent abyss. The tiniest bit of guilt emerges only to be quelled by logic; better it than you.

The pattern goes on for what feels like miles; you burst and defend yourself against more of the tadvolts by bursting some more. While not as handy as the bombs you’ve seen thrown in the lab, your explosive jumping would have to suffice for the time being. 

It’s only when you encounter a towering gate made of iron bars do you stop bursting across the landscape. You curse inwardly; the stupid thing was far too tall for you to burst over. Not like you had any chalk on you to transmute the annoying thing away. You huff, realizing it didn’t matter since you didn’t even know how to transmute stuff in the first place. 

You look around your immediate surroundings for a potential way around when you see a crumbling well. Upon closer inspection, there’s a rusted ladder peaking up and over the ridge.

Perking up, you look down into the well’s depths only to be met with absolute darkness. You question your sanity when you make to climb down the ladder, trying to rationalize that where there’s rust there’s water, and you’re hoping the first water you come across will be your target. 

Ignoring the musty smell of mold and dust, you descend into the well.

Climbing down a decrepit ladder in total darkness is not a good idea, you think as you lose your grip on the slick bars and begin plummeting. Quickly, you clutch your potion and manage a quick burst before you smack into the dirt floor.

You release a small pained hiss as you begin getting up. It’s only then you realize a multitude of things in a few seconds. Firstly, you could see now that there were bundles of lit torches lining the ground and walls of this underground area. Secondly, you try not to think too hard about the sheer number of skulls and other distinctly human bones sprawled across and even embedded into the ground.

Finally, you see an animated skeleton standing before you with a single sword clutched in its hand, poised to strike. An unnamed terror laces throughout your body and claws at your heart when you see the rusted, decaying blades in their grasp.

A familiar warmth floods your system as the adrenaline forces you upright and flailing back in seconds. Faintly, you register the small bubbling of your primed potion as your body collides into something which _clanked_ in response.

Without thinking you burst jump skyward, hopeful the resulting explosion shoved the second skeleton back. You watch the first skeleton – boneclang, your mind recalls – swing its sword mindlessly in your direction.

You manage to land on your feet when you register more clicking coming from behind you.

“ _Damnit_ —!” You seethe as the monster takes the opportunity to slash at you. Its blade manages to slice through your protective leggings as you jump away, knowing your potion was still unreactive from the prior jump. You curse inwardly when you feel the distinct stinging of the wound. 

More clanks echo dully in the room as both boneclangs approach you with their swords raised. When you’re certain they’re close enough, you burst to a nearby alcove.

You land safely but can’t help the small jolt of pain; the residual fog from your burst stung your open cut. Ignoring how it might impact your movement, you look below to see one of the monsters gone, the lingering white mist indicated the magic holding it together was no longer active. The marred but still present boneclang looked up at you, sword resting by its side.

You narrow your eyes, knowing you’ll likely have to kill any monsters with even the slightest sentience. After all, if you let them live who knows if they’ll report you to Specter Knight. Considering his status as a member of the Order, the prospect would likely leave you dead. It was a risk you couldn’t take.

Jumping back down with your simmering potion, you hastily approach the boneclang and burst before it can lift its sword it retaliation. You watch it vanish in a cloud of white, undeniably dead. Well, more dead, heh. 

Deciding to take a quick break, you look over your new wound. Ugh, it didn’t feel _nearly_ as bad as it looked. Blood stained and dribbled down your torn leggings, turning the bright magenta into a gritty maroon color.

You reach into your robes and retrieve Draak’s similarly magenta pouch. You mentally apologize when you empty the rest of its contents into your lap and tear the fabric into strips. Wrapping the wound as best you can, you settle back against the wall and push your mask up enough to reveal your mouth. 

Without decorum you shove the remaining rations into your face, barely tasting them as you keep an eye on your surroundings. Washing the food down with half of the health tonic also packed in the satchel, you readjust your mask until your face is hidden again. 

Staggering upright, you heave a sigh. Time to continue exploring this tomb.

**—**

You curse internally as you burst just in time to avoid being flattened underneath the massive skeleton.

Sure, you are pretty short but this thing is _huge_.

This is the second monstrosity of a boneclang you’ve encountered while trudging along this underground maze, and the first took several direct explosions to finally die. What made matters worse is the fact the stupid thing was invulnerable when the lantern it held wasn’t alight with a strange blue flame. 

The thing is so massive your burst-induced explosions don’t so much as make the thing _budge_ when hit. You land on an overhead platform and watch the boneclang shudder before collapsing, its lantern snuffed. Yeah, like you were gonna fall for that again.

A few moments of silence go by until the lantern relights itself, followed shortly thereafter by the equally strange glowing irises of the skeleton’s eye sockets. While it was admittedly interesting to see all its various bones rise and recompile themselves into the behemoth boneclang, you sat in tense silence as you waited for your potion’s cooldown to end. When a familiar warmth and bubbling greets your gloved hand, you jump at the monster.

When you’re in range, you hastily release the pressure in your bottle in a controlled but still damaging blast. You satisfactorily not how it causes the monster to shudder, indicating it was probably close to collapsing for good. As the thing slowly tenses to fling itself at you, you use your frankly massive sleeves to pivot midair and avoid its lunge.

This process repeats a couple more times until the giant boneclang finally falls apart, its individual bones vanishing in clouds of white smoke. You sigh, eyeing the golden gleam filtering through the wisps. 

Without further thought you snatch the leaf-like circlet from the ground and shove it into one of the many pockets of your robes. With a sick sense of satisfaction for claiming a trophy from your kill, you press onward. 

Although it was slightly disappointing the first monstrous skeleton’s circlet vanished alongside it, you were certain the gold could be useful back at the lab. Maybe to craft some more _fulminating gold_ or even bombs…heck, the thing could probably sell for a bunch too.

Eventually you happen upon a second rusty ladder waiting at the end of the corridor. 

You sigh in relief and hastily climb up the rusted bars, relishing the cool and comparatively fresh air of the surface. It’s only after a second do you realize you can barely see anything at all, save for the dim lights dotting the abandoned village in the background. Just as you contemplate bursting to see if it gave off any light does an earsplitting _CRACK_ echo in the dark sky, a blinding light following shortly.

A spark of fear runs through you, making your heart beat so fast it nearly hurt. But the second the lightning flashed you could clearly make out your surroundings: crumbling brick walls extend from the abyss below and far into the air, platforms sluggishly moving alongside the walls as multiple ravine-separated columns make up the path.

You can’t bring yourself to even sigh, far too high-strung from the random flashes and howling thunder. 

Mustering what little courage you have at the moment, you fumble to shake your potion and wait for another flash to alight your surroundings. A few seconds later and your wish is granted, bathing the crumbling path and blood-red platforms overhead in light. 

Once your trajectory is matched with the nearest mobile platform, you burst toward it, flapping your sleeves to curb your momentum. You safely land before quickly kneeling, instinctually flinching when another deafening _CRACK_ sounds around you. 

It certainly didn’t help matters that if you happened to miss your target, you would most likely plummet into the endless ravines below. 

Taking in a shaky breath, you agitate your potion and wait for more lightning strikes to reveal your next target. This pattern of waiting, bursting and flapping goes on for far longer than you’d like to admit. It gets to the point where the abrupt crashes of thunder and blinding flashes of light no longer faze you.

You finally reach a relatively large non-moving platform and, after a quick burst, you propel a sole tadvolt off into the abyss, its similarly bright electric body falling until you could no longer see it. Well, it was probably a good thing you didn’t manage to fall of a cliff so far. You can’t stop the snort that comes out; at least there weren’t spikes everywhere.

Deciding against taking a break out in the open, you continue trekking onward. There were multiple gravestones erupting from the earth like demented trees, their crumbling granite a testament to their age. It was especially eerie what with the silence of the place, the thunder’s rumbling long gone. Even more disturbing were the piles of stones accentuated by the dull white of bones peeking through.

Whoever buried these bodies didn’t do a very good job.

Ahead, you notice a blue apparition hanging stagnant over a crumbled headstone. Looking closer but maintaining your distance, it’s actually kind of cute. While slightly translucent, its blue body had long sleeves and even a cute witch-like hat. You recall Styx mentioning a ghost-like monster called an invisishade. Then you remember he also said it’s impossible to destroy them.

You keep your distance from the floating monster, hoping if it doesn’t see you it can’t possibly report your presence to Specter Knight. So you duck out of sight and behind tall tombstones all the while cursing your obnoxiously bright robes. Luckily the invisishade doesn’t seem to notice you since it never tries to approach.

You cross the makeshift graveyard and stumble upon an enormous stone wall, accented with the same blood-red skulls decorating nearly everything in this utterly drab place. A sickly fog climbs over nearby iron fences, hanging low to the ground before dropping off into more endless abysses. The decrepit homes of the ruined village lie just on the other side of the wrought-iron bars, so close you could almost see into their open walls. 

Another sigh crawls up and out your throat. What was it with this world and its strange vertical landscapes? 

Peeking around shows no innocuous wells with ladders leading underground. Already shaking your potion, you can’t help but feel stupid considering your rash plan. Even though the likelihood of encountering other monsters or even Specter Knight in the village ruins is probably pretty high, it was a risk you’d take.

A shudder runs through you. It certainly wasn’t fun having Plague Knight throwing bombs at you for ‘practice,’ so you didn’t want to _think_ about the consequences for failing to return with soul water. 

With a quick burst jump followed by the harsh flap of your sleeves, you land on the other side of the low fence. 

The village is just as rotten and crumbling as you thought. It seems like half of the homes are torn apart, left to decay until they eventually collapsed. Even if the place is clearly abandoned, the fact torches were still alit in the streets and the relatively intact buildings hinted at the undead occupants. 

You sneak through the darkened village, remaining as close to the shadows as possible. While a few normal boneclangs walk around the lit areas, you avoid them by duking into the rotting homes and hiding behind piles of debris. As a safety precaution you place your burst potion into the pocket of your sleeve, knowing if you accidentally set off an explosion it will be loud enough to garner their attention. 

The dense fog clinging to the ground both helps and hinders your progress. If you weren’t careful you could likely fall into another bottomless pit, considering you manage to catch yourself just in time as you trip over a small pile of rubbish. Hissing in surprise, you leer defensively down into the inky abyss. 

Still you stalk through the village’s remains, wary of all the boneclangs patrolling and lit windows.

If this was once a settlement with normal people – even those with animal heads – then the chances of there being a water source nearby is also high. And water could potentially mean _soul_ water.

You reach the end of the village, spotting a single home in relatively mint condition. Through the brightly lit windows you catch a glimpse of…boneclangs dancing…? From their silhouettes they weren’t dressed in leather armor as all the others were, but instead wore mostly normal clothes. Keeping to the shadowy side of a nearby wall, you continue watching them jovially twirl around one another.

The skeleton’s dance ends as they part and give a short bow.

As soon as you try to make your past the home unnoticed, the boneclang wearing a feathered cap turns in your general direction. You hastily backpedal back into the shadows, hoping they will cover you. The boneclang continues surveying the area and you wait with baited breath.

Quietly, once the skeleton stops peering out the window, you make your way in the same direction you came. It was far too risky to pass by an obviously sentient monster; none so far had the capacity to show joy or even mimic otherwise mundane activities like _dancing_. Hell, even those sword-wielding skeletons swung their blades in slow, predictable motions, but you were just unlucky and clumsy enough to _not_ avoid them.

Grimacing in frustration, you hurry back to the graveyard only to trip _again_ near the same pit.

Unlike last time, you don’t catch yourself.

It was ironic callback to your first day here in this strange world, tripping over sheer cliffsides to avoid monsters. But unlike last time, you had the means to potentially save yourself.

You maniacally fumble to remove your burst potion from your sleeve, shake it as quickly as you can and pressing the valve’s button—

_Boom!_

Bursting out of the pit and righting your momentum with your sleeves, you land safely on the ground. You nearly curse when you hear a cacophony of _clinks_ and _clangs_ , likely other boneclangs privy to the explosion coming to investigate. What made matters worse is the fact the sound carried when not contained underground.

Yet another burst of energy forces you to sprint toward the untouched house with the dancing skeletons. There were too many to get past if you tried to get back to the graveyard, and—

The same cap-wearing skeleton steps out from the front door. You belatedly notice its distinct red bones as its skull turns in your general direction. You know it’s looking for you even if it lacks the irises to do so.

It – he, if the deep melodic voice is anything to go by – says, “Who goes there?”

Then his breath hitches and a heavy dread settles in your stomach; you’ve been spotted.

You don’t say anything, instead blazing past him under the foggy cover of the dense mist. Potion primed to explode, you hear a faint “What—?” but ignore it in favor of bursting over another iron gate. 

Your lungs burn with the desire to breathe, but you fail to give them the satisfaction. Instead, you continue sprinting away from the ruined village and the mysterious red boneclang, placing as much distance between yourself and the monsters as possible. The wound in your leg burns from the exertion, but you don’t care.

You burst over other ravines and continue running as fast as your legs can carry you. It’s only when you glance behind you and see the village and its lights fade into the perpetual fog do you slow down. 

Heaving beneath your mask, you pause and take in your new surroundings. 

While not immediately obvious, you note the platform you’ve run across is not made of cobbled stone but instead consists of a black granite embedded with multiple red bones. You quickly peek over the nearest edge and feel your heart stutter when you see something glinting below. But there wasn’t any platforms below you could jump on for a closer look at the strange shimmer…

An abrupt rattling interrupts your stupor and turning around reveals yet another boneclang. Unlike every single one you’ve encountered this one is constantly slouching, no doubt due to the heavy-looking crown on top of its skull. But just like the other ones it holds a rusty sword poised to strike you down. You ready your potion with a sigh.

A couple well-time bursts later and its body dissolves into white smoke, leaving behind its skull and massive helmet-crown thing. Curious, you try to move the contraption but find it so utterly dense you can’t get it to budge an inch. Resorting to – _haha_ – ‘explosive’ measures, you burst and the resulting blast flings it a good meter away. Neat.

What was substantially less neat was the moment it landed on the strange platform, the entire landmass shuddered and began to sink. The empty flasks in your cloak’s pockets clinked together as you jumped onto the platform.

Seconds pass by as the platform lowers itself closer to the glimmering surface below, and when you’re close enough you can’t stop the relieved sigh. 

_Water_. And if the unearthly murkiness and swirling patterns of gaping faces give any indication, this was probably the soul water you’ve been searching for this entire time.

You spot an underground opening behind you as the platform continues its descent. Better safe than sorry, you burst onto the non-sinking land and turn around just in time to watch the heavy crown and its stage sink below the surface of the cloudy water.

You remove the empty flasks and grin as you fill them up with the soul water. Once the bottles were capped and secured as tightly as possible, you take a moment to admire the substance in the torchlight. A highly viscous fluid greets your eyes, constantly swirling with ghastly faces contorted as if screaming. You return their stagnant shrieking with a wide smile beneath your mask.

Pocketing your treasure, you turn around and notice yet another ladder descending into the catacombs. With a wrinkled nose but otherwise appeased attitude, you climb down into the depths.

**—**

While the map Plague Knight gave you was only useful getting to and from the Lich Yard, it certainly wasn’t helpful in redirecting you to the stupid entrance of the place.

You groan as you walk along a strangely empty path of red bricks laid in dreary black soil. 

Far off in the distance, the village stood silently as the same heavy fog wreathed it. Even if you wanted to, it was virtually impossible to retrace your steps once that platform sunk into the depths of the soul water. Not that you would want to get back to the lab by traversing through the boneclang-filled settlement which also has a high chance of housing Specter Knight.

As sudden as it come and goes, you feel something or someone staring at you. You suppress a mild shiver and continue walking along the cobbled stones, seeing nothing popping out of the ground to hunt you down. Unnerving, but ever since you climbed your way back to the surface it’s never ceased. That wasn’t to say you weren’t on edge; it was difficult _not_ to be considering you were in enemy territory. 

A wave of the familiar eerie fog begins billowing the closer you get to another fancy gateway, scarlet angels and skulls decorating the arch. While the immediate surroundings were different from the entrance, you dared to hope this would lead you out of the haunted location.

You pass underneath the behemoth of a structure only to be met with another dead-end. You grumble under your breath. What was it with this place and its annoyingly tall iron fences and vertical brick walls?

Just as you turn around a sudden _CRACK_ echoes behind you, accompanied by a white flash.

“So _this_ is the interloper stomping around my territory? _Pathetic_.”

You can’t help the abrupt flinch at the gravelly voice, nor the shudder at how scathing it sounded. Hesitantly you turn around only to feel your eyes widen as the worst possible outcome unfolds right in front of you. Ignoring his fluttering crimson robes and the golden armor underneath, your eyes trail to the truly massive scythe grasped firmly in his hand. It glints ominously in the nearby torchlight.

Floating motionless in the air is Specter Knight.

As the realization settles into your bones like a frigid promise, he speaks up. “Given the obnoxious explosions, I hoped it was the traitorous little coward so I could finally cut him down…but this?” 

His derisive tone is accentuated by his masked face raking up and down your figure. You realize with a latent dread he recognizes your robes and who you answer to. Judging by his animated word choice, it seems he isn’t too fond of your boss. After all, who else could it be given the explosions and the fact both are members of the Order? And what was this about Plague Knight being a traitor…?

Regardless, with his apparent hostility to Plague Knight…there was no way this confrontation could end nicely for you.

“He instead sends a sniveling servant to do his bidding? How _insulting_.” You watch detached as Specter Knight tightens the grip on his scythe, idly whirling it before holding it aloft with both hands. 

Well, at least you would die an actual graveyard. It was poetic, given all the jokes Plague Knight made at your expense back then.

Your grip on your burst potion tightens in anticipation; a confrontation was inevitable.

Specter Knight then pulls both his arms back, readying his scythe to strike. Words gritted out with unrestrained anger, he snarls, “ _You accepted your fate the moment you stepped foot here_!” 

With that he lunges forward, flying directly at you. 

Mind numb with adrenaline and pure instinct to survive, you wait until he’s almost close enough before releasing the pressure of your potion. A familiar green fog erupts as you burst overhead, noting with a hint of satisfaction as the noxious fumes cause him to hiss in pain.

He quickly turns around and lunges at you again before hastily swinging his scythe. Potion still in cooldown, you flap your sleeves and pivot midair. While the blade misses the intended target of your neck, it does cleanly slice through your robes and slightly into your ribs. It was your turn to hiss in pain as the familiar warmth of blood seeped from the fresh wound. 

You fail to land on your feet, stumbling in a mess of flailing limbs. You manage to roll over just as the black and red sickle digs into the dirt where you had been seconds before. 

Specter Knight curses under his breath while struggling to remove his scythe from the ground. You quell the urge to physically lash out at him given his close proximity; a quick glance at the heavy golden plates beneath his robes tells you it would likely hurt your more than him.

Instead, you prime your potion and burst nearly point-blank. The explosion flings your prone body away, but you catch him cursing again as the green fumes billow around him. As you pry yourself from the ground you see him yank the curved blade from the stones.

Taking the opportunity you turn your back on him and burst away, flapping your sleeves for maximum momentum. It wasn’t feasible to defeat a member of the Order of No Quarter; no, you just had to get the hell away.

A pained gasp escapes you, sharp pain erupting in your side.

Unable to ignore the stabbing agony, you clumsily fall onto the cobbled stones and skid across them ungracefully. You instinctually clasp the location – white flashes obscure your vision – and your gloved hand comes back glistening with blood. How—

You glance back as you stutter to your feet, watching the scythe whirl through the air and back into Specter Knight’s grip. Its blade gleams through the red splatter decorating it. You clutch your bleeding side tighter.

Specter Knight drifts down from the air until he’s stalking toward you on the ground, robes and mantle writhing behind him. He lifts his scythe and hisses, “How fitting; the coward’s underling is even more a blustering fool.”

He rears back and throws the scythe. You fling yourself to the side just as the whirling blade flies past you. Gripping your potion, you glance behind you and watch the twirling blade twist around and begin returning like a demented boomerang. You burst up and watch as it rushes underneath you.

You continue glancing backward at Specter Knight, refusing to be caught off-guard again. Preparing your potion, you burst away from him as he hurls his scythe at you when given the chance. While predictable, the motions are so rapid you barely manage receiving only minor slices on your arms and legs. It gets to the point where the adrenaline flooding your system can’t block out the pain instilled when your burst’s fumes irritate all the wounds.

Cradling your side, you turn around only to heave a shuddering breath. Specter Knight hovers soundlessly as his robes billow out before wrapping around him. In an instant he vanishes into thin air.

You don’t think about it as you continue pumping your legs, trying not to burst for fear of incapacitating yourself with the would-be resultant pain. It's already bad enough you can barely remain upright, the ground twisting in the peripherals of your vision. The dizziness is accompanied by a spreading warmth, reminding you of just how much blood you’ve lost. You stumble to remain upright, a distinct tightness welling in your throat.

A small wind brushes past your exposed neck, serving as your only warning before sharp fingers dig into it.

Whipping around to see Specter Knight mere inches away, you release a pained gasp and desperately claw at his hand. This close you can smell the awful stench of death clinging to him. Unbidden frightened tears prick your eyes. Your already strained breath hitches when his other hand rears back, scythe in hand. 

You blearily see your own reflection through the blood staining the blade’s surface.

Panicked, you stop trying to fruitlessly pry away his fingers and hold your burst potion in his face. He rears his head back at the unexpected motion but it’s too late; you press on the bottle’s valve and release the explosion.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take; after all, your mask is designed to protect you from burning away your eyes.

Still, your vision briefly clouds with the familiar green fog of your burst before flashing white as your body is harshly flung onto the ground. Dimly, you register another guttural hiss while your body tumbles like a puppet cut from its strings only to slam into a wall. A stuttering gasp is wrenched from your throat.

On shaking arms you try to pull yourself from the ground before collapsing, pain flooding your nerves. You register the slight clicks of Specter Knight’s armor as he approaches you on foot. For some odd reason, a strange calmness embraces your mind, washing away the panic as if it were a drop in an ocean.

Mind hazy with pain and clogged with expectancy, you can only cough feebly as he brings himself closer.

“Perhaps,” his grating voice begins, “If I present your corpse he will understand it is a fool’s errand to reap the _reaper_.”

As discreetly as you can, you begin fumbling to prime your burst potion.

Specter Knight slowly grasps his scythe with both hands before raising the blade behind him. His slightly displaced robes reveal a golden chest plate wrapped securely around his ribs. You know from his position above you it would be all too easy to sink a weapon beneath the armor and pierce the plethora of organs beneath. 

Your ragged voice coughs again. Once. Twice.

The familiar pear-shaped bottle bubbles warmly against your gloved hand.

“A valiant effort…for a lowly henchman.” With that Specter Knight tenses to bring down his scythe.

If you were going to die here, you sure as hell weren’t going to give this bastard the satisfaction. No; if anything, you were going to kill yourself with own incredibly stupid, last-ditch effort and reciprocate all the grievous wounds he gave you. 

You barely register the twisted grin snaking its way onto your face as you thrust your potion’s bottle down.

The glass immediately shatters when it impacts the ground between you and the looming knight, followed by a deafening _BOOM_ and burst of green smoke.

Then, visceral pain blooms throughout your crumpled body.

Unexpected; you didn’t think you’d survive.

Your ears ring as your head snaps back from the force, colliding painfully with the structure behind you. Briefly, everything goes white. The sting of your tears intensifies as the noxious gas seeps into them, scalding them enough to feel like they’re melting in your sockets. Belatedly, you realize your mask must have been blown off your face as a choked scream catches in your throat.

A twisted sense of gratification distracts you from the sheer magnitude of pain when you hear Specter Knight release a gurgling hiss. 

When the last wisps of green vanish you finally get the chance to see your handiwork.

Specter Knight kneels on the ground, using his scythe for support as he claws at his masked eyes. Your pride soars further when you notice the various shards of glass piercing through the black cloth underneath his armor, but strangely enough there is a distinct lack of blood stains accompanying the lacerations. 

Viscous tears drip sluggishly down your cheeks, burning hot as the comparatively cool air of the Lich Yard caresses them. Looking beyond your corrupted vision, you watch as Specter Knight’s mask slowly looks up and directly at you. You don’t even try to hide the terrified smirk.

You must look like a cornered animal, snarling and frothing at the mouth trying to delay the inevitable.

Vainly, you try to crawl away only to see black spots appear at the corner of your already blurry vision. A shuddering breath escapes you as pain ricochets beneath your skin before coalescing throughout your torso. Uninvited shudders wrack your body as you glance down at your chest. Sure enough, various punctures litter the once brilliant fabric while needle-like shards poke out, dark stains emerging around them.

…ha ha _haaa_ , ‘stabbing’ pain indeed.

Raising you head, you can only watch with a sick fascination as Specter Knight begins to pry out the glass from under his ribs, hissing mildly in discomfort. His visor never looks away from you, instead watching you like a sentinel as you pathetically attempt to crawl away.

You manage a foot or two before the strain forces your arms to drop, twitching and utterly useless. Releasing a quivering breath, you merely glance back at Specter Knight and offer him an appeasing look.

“…at least make it quick.”

Though the request is uttered, Specter Knight slowly rises to his feet. He wraps his fingers around his scythe and begins to amble toward your prone form. He stops just before you, holding his sickle passively while analyzing you in silence. Between the gaps melded into his visor and the darkness greeting your curious stare, you don’t know what he’s thinking.

The silence spans on for what feels like an eternity. The adrenaline steadily drains from your system until the searing pain ebbs and flows as if to make up for all the blood lost. You just want this self-inflicted torture to end already.

Specter Knight finally curls his fingers tighter around his scythe’s handle, breaking the quiet.

“…I will abide by your wish.” His raspy voice is tentative if not soft. It’s…odd, to say the least.

A stunted chuckle tries to come out but instead morphs into a watery coughing fit. The taste of iron lingers in the back of your throat. Every breath you take feels like fire charring your lungs.

“Thank you.” Your smile relaxes until it becomes genuine. 

More black dots begin to blot out your vision as your chest spasms weakly. Although fatigued and barely conscious, a slight guilt eats away at you for not being able to truly thank everyone who’s helped you these past days. You’d never get to thank Styx for all his guidance or thank Draak for being the genuinely kind soul he is…even Plague Knight, who offered you refuge when you had nothing.

Even if you didn’t remember anything about this world, it quickly grew to be your home.

Numb, you watch on as Specter Knight towers above you before lifting his scythe. 

Before the wicked blade can swing down like a guillotine, a faint _whooshing_ noise interrupts the otherwise silent atmosphere. No sooner than you recognize the sound does a loud explosion detonate behind Specter Knight, who hisses in surprise before sharply turning around. 

Familiar green fog dissipates as the knight’s crimson robes billow with some unseen force. A low growl sounds beneath his mantle, clutching his scythe as he points it threateningly at the small hooded figure standing behind the spots in your vision.

Against your better judgement hope alights in your chest.

“ _Hss_ …” Specter Knight growls under his breath. “How predictable a weakling like yourself strikes when my back is turned.”

Oddly enough, Plague Knight doesn’t immediately scoff or jeer like you expect. Instead another tense silence perpetuates the air, interrupted only by your quiet but ragged breaths. He simply tosses a bomb in his hand, up and down, up and down while he stares at the now hovering Specter Knight.

Finally Plague Knight manages to choke out a laugh, but his voice is clearly strained. “ _Huh-hee hee hee_ …!”

Without warning Specter Knight readies his scythe and lunges at Plague Knight who bursts out of the way. Flapping his own sleeves, the comparatively smaller knight turns around and plants himself between you and his attacker. 

Plague Knight’s next laugh is notably cheerier. “ _Ha ha haaa_! Is that supposed to scare me, you sorry excuse for a specter?” He chortles again before mockingly saying, “Oh wait, my mistake; _ooooooh_ , a spooky ghost! Whatever will I do…? _Hee hee_!”

Specter Knight seethes in response, “I will enjoy ending your story here and now, foolish alchemist.”

It’s becoming harder to focus on their voices, which grow more muffled by the second. Similarly, your already bleary vision is getting progressively more stained with inky specs until you can hardly make out either knight.

From behind the black unfurling within your eyes you see Plague Knight burst toward Specter Knight, hurling bombs with practiced ease. Each land its target, exploding in vibrant shades of green. They fling the floating knight around through the sheer force of each blast, forcing him further and further away. 

Specter Knight retaliates by thrusting his scythe but the alchemist simply jumps out of the way, pelting bombs. It’s a sort of macabre dance where they exchange opportunities to attack, be it corrosive bombs or scythe swings. Both weapons are successful in achieving damaging blows, but it’s telling how Specter Knight begins cradling the area under his ribs, likely from the glass shards.

You barely register the explosions or metallic screeches of the scythe, unable to hear them clearly anymore.

Everything grows steadily more muddled until your vision is completely engulfed in darkness. Coherency follows shortly thereafter, and you feel yourself drifting into a comforting unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!
> 
> If you've managed to bear with me this far, this is the point where I believe the story actually gets interesting. And yeah, I'm trying to be slightly more realistic because I'm a dramatic loser. Also, sorry if I bungled any of the personalities; I'm...not the best when it comes to that. But! Maybe the next chapter(s) will explain some oddities!
> 
>  _Also_...Red's pretty cool. He's one of my fav NPCs so I decided to put him in for no other reason than 'why not?'
> 
> Anyways, thanks for looking!


	4. The Reverent Thief

Glass clinks together while machinery idly whirls in the background.

Garbled words from an equally indecipherable person make their way into your ears. You don’t comprehend the words but your head bows in understanding regardless. The faint sounds of footsteps lessen until they disappear completely. You swirl the discolored solution of the test tubes in your hands.

It’s preferable to not have a witness in the room, even if they work under the same roof as you. 

It’s easier not to think about the things that go on here.

Carefully, you place the glassware into another machine. A few button presses later and it whirrs to life, happily spinning away. You wait and pick at the unnecessarily bright purple gloves sticking to your hands like a second skin. Beyond the prepping and pipetting, you’re merely an accessory compared to the robots at your disposal. 

But it’s fine. Makes things easier.

The spinning stops and you remove the test tubes. You bring them back to the bench and prep your station with various plastic instruments and more empty tubes. Bottles of various solutions litter your workspace, and even if the words adorning their pretty little labels are indistinguishable you mix them with practiced ease.

Pinch this, fill that, drop here, discard there. 

There’s a certain beauty in this perpetual cycle. 

Intrinsically it makes sense. You know your expectations and no one can fault you for an existence comparable to the other mechanical tools scattered around the room. Another cog in this machine is all you are. And you enjoy it. 

Mostly.

But it’s easier not to think about those sorts of things.

Pinch this, fill that, drop here, discard there.

**—**

Your ears feel like they’re clogged with cotton and your mind is likewise muddled. Through the haze clouding your head you hear faint voices, their words distorted. Straining, you manage to clearly make out the messages.

“—do you think they’ll wake up? It’s been days…”

“Patience. They’re fine; they just need rest.”

A beat of silence is shortly followed by the rustling of fabric. Even through the delirium you could recognize Draak and Styx’s voices clear as day. Your eyelids still refuse to cooperate, feeling leagues too heavy to even try opening. Apparently your tries manifested themselves enough to be noticed, if your companions’ sharp breaths are any indication.

Struggling, your eyelids crack open only to immediately close as harsh lights assault them. A groan of discomfort escapes you before you try again. It takes a few more tires before your eyes become adjusted enough to finally see.

Blearily, you take in your surroundings. It doesn’t take a genius you’re resting in some sort of infirmary, given the other empty beds and distinctly medical instruments laying around. 

You shift to get a better view only to release a hiss from the wave of sharp pain the motion caused. Thankfully, the pain fades into a sore numbness after a second and you just fall back onto the pillow, too tired from that miniscule motion. If you were being honest most of your body felt tingly and overall not nearly as bad as you would expect, what with almost dying and all.

“Ugh…” You groan. “What happened…?”

Draak and Styx exchange a quick look before the latter states, “Honestly, we’d like to know as well.”

Mind still barely clinging to consciousness and coherent thought, you settle for, “Ran into Specter Knight. Used my burst potion as a bomb. Plague Knight was there.”

Your blunt words are met with a deafening silence before Draak stutters out a strangled gasp. “W- _what_? You— _Specter Knight_ did this? O-oh gods, I’m so sorry—”

“That would explain…well, your condition,” Styx interrupts, voice tense. “Plague Knight conjured both himself and you back to the lab.” His words gain a tentative quality and drop in volume; it was never a good sign when Styx emoted noticeably. “You weren’t…let’s just say it’s extremely lucky we’re able to have this conversation.”

“Oh.” You sigh and look down at yourself. While it doesn’t bother you to find out someone changed you into a clean tunic, you are rather curious how your injuries look. At least you were feeling far more awake now.

A brief silence passes before Draak pipes up, “Wait. How did you use your burst potion as a bomb?”

You offer a half-hearted shrug in response. “Figured if I just threw the thing at the ground as hard as I could it would explode. Coupled with the fact I didn’t release the pressure and maybe the enchantment would compound its explosiveness…I thought it would work.”

Styx dryly says, “And it did. One might say _too_ well.” Although you can’t see his face you know he’s giving you a look. But he doesn’t stop, instead stating the obvious. “You nearly killed yourself.”

You try to scoff but instead devolve into a fit of coughs. You manage to grit out, “I know, thanks” between each painful contraction of your diaphragm. Too bad whatever painkiller was making you feel fuzzy wasn’t strong enough to combat the abrupt waves of pain.

Draak hovers over you worriedly before gently grabbing your shoulders and repositioning you upright. You strain to thank him and exhale a long breath when the coughs stop. 

“I’ll go get some water; be right back!” Draak chirps before turning away and leaving the infirmary. 

Once Draak’s robes disappeared around the entryway, Styx turns to you. As he reaches into his sleeve’s pocket he begrudgingly says, “This is incredibly stupid of us given the circumstances, but…” 

You watch in mild confusion which shortly turns to a subdued elation when he pulls out a pear-shaped bottle, a familiar green solution shining back at you. He palms the bottle before looking back at you, mentioning, “Since you lost yours, Draak and I made you another. I’m not giving this to you right now—” You can’t stop the slight frown, “—but when you’re fully healed it’ll be ready and waiting.”

You return his stare with a tired smile. Preempting him, you lightly chide, “I’ll try not to use it as a makeshift bomb this time.” 

Styx heaves a forlorn sigh before pocketing the burst potion again. His voice lowers until he’s nearly whispering when he says, “For someone who doesn’t remember anything, you’re surprisingly intelligent. Not many would try the stunt you pulled; even less would really think of it at the scale you did.”

You don’t know what your face is doing, but you’re pretty sure he just insulted you. Beyond the slight indignation, you ignore the fact he’s only partially right. Then again, it’s easier not to think about such things.

You can’t stop the strange sense of déjà vu, though. Like you’re supposed to feel something but don’t.

So you and Styx chatter amiably until the emptiness inside fades away. Minutes of idle talk pass and pause when Draak returns with a generous glass of water, offering it to you. It’s cool and refreshing, parching your dry throat and all around making you feel slightly better. 

Glancing at the mostly empty glass and the drops of condensation dripping down it instills a dull sense of panic. You have absolutely no idea why looking at water made you feel like you were missing something important until it finally clicks. “Hey, uh, did Plague Knight ever get the soul water? There were a few flasks…”

You voice trails off when you notice how both you companions’ masks are pointed directly at you but remain stonily silent. Ah, now it seems _both_ are giving you looks.

Styx finally relents, voice incredulous as he says, “You come back bleeding to death and you’re worried about some ingredient?” A hot flush of shame erupts in your cheeks, much to your dismay and Styx’s dissatisfaction, given his sigh. “Fine. Yes, Plague Knight has the soul water you collected and practically died for. Happy?”

He snorts abrasively when you return a relieved grin. 

“Anyways,” Draak says, voice noticeably less giddy, “I’m just glad you’re alright…I know we haven’t really known each other for long, but, still…I consider you one of my closest friends.”

Oh no. No no no; was he getting choked up? This was definitely not your forte. But you had to do _something_.

“Uhhh.” Goddamnit, actually say something coherent! “I—uh, I’m sorry I made you worry.” Then you recall how you were going to thank him for his thoughtful satchel and hurriedly blurt out, “And thank you for all those goodies you packed—” You then recall shredding his pouch for bandages and wince, adding, “And, uh, sorry for ripping your bag up. I—it was really useful! The goodies, I mean. And the bag, but—” Oh jeez _shut up_.

Feeling like a complete idiot you obey your own reprimand and close your mouth. Draak just continues to look at you until he stifles a small laugh. “It’s okay, and I’m glad it helped. Don’t worry about it.”

Styx approaches the hunched figure of Draak and lightly pats him on the back. “Alright big guy, we should let them rest since I doubt they’re even supposed to be awake. We should also probably update the boss while we’re at it.”

Both of them make to leave but not before Styx shoots you one last look; well, assumedly given his mask. “I mean it; get some rest. Even alchemy can only do so much.” And with that they leave.

You want to huff, childish as it may be, but you know he’s right. Listening to reason for once, you allow your heavy eyelids to close again and embrace the fuzziness shifting inside your entire body.

**—**

All in all it takes a few more days until you’re finally free of bedrest. It was alleviating to once again be up on your feet, considering how stir-crazy you felt doing absolutely nothing but listen to conversations which happened within your hearing range. Turns out, eavesdropping heralded some…interesting results.

Mainly the fact Plague Knight’s squawking could be heard rooms away.

While you fancied yourself as someone with common sense, you still have no idea what constitutes an ‘essence,’ but it’s virtually all Plague Knight’s been screaming about lately. Of course, when you overheard him making a pun at Specter Knight’s expense – ‘gave up the ghost,’ pfft – you chuckled to yourself, unable to censor your terrible sense of humor.

Even back up on your feet you continue hearing Plague Knight’s jubilant yells permeate the entire lab as he experiments in the boiler room. You’ve been in the room before, mainly the morning of your nearly fatal collecting field trip, but you’ve found yourself wandering to it more often.

“Alright,” Mona says airily, “This should be the last health potion you need for a full recovery.” 

You stare up at her and gently accept the flask filled with a bubbling red liquid. “Thanks for everything; I really appreciate it.” After all, you learned from both Styx and Draak she had helped alongside Plague Knight when it came to removing all the glass from your torso.

Mona simply nods once before looking appraisingly down at you. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask how you managed to escape from Specter Knight.” She gives a rueful sigh before drawling, “The guy practically kicks me out whenever I need ectoplasm…”

“Uh.” You look away and try to collect your thoughts. Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort given your general fatigue, you shrug and state, “I didn’t. He just showed up, tried to kill me and almost did, then I decided to go out with a bang.” You heave a small sigh before muttering under your breath, “And it barely incapacitated him too…”

Your conversation is interrupted by howling laughter. Both you and Mona look over to where Plague Knight is messing with a flask containing a similar ethereal substance like the ones in the Dynamo Decanter.

His shoulders are shaking with unrestrained mirth before he turns around. “Ahahahaha—!” His reedy voice is lilting, continuing on to gasp, “‘Go out with a bang.’ Brilliant! _Hee hee hee_ …! Booooom!”

You can’t stop the ugly snort at your unintentional pun while Mona rolls her eyes, but the tiniest smirk pulling at her lips displays her endearment. 

The tall woman redirects her attention to you as Plague Knight’s laughter bubbles down in the background. “Well,” she begins, “Color me impressed; you’ve got guts.” A familiar warmth pools in your cheeks at the praise and you avert your eyes in embarrassment; where was your mask when you needed it?

Instead of responding you just open the health potion and drown it in a couple gulps. The taste is barely indistinguishable from health tonics save for it being far more pungent and aromatic. You imagine the potion is like drinking perfume.

Wiping your mouth with a sleeve, you return the flask to Mona who dumps it on a nearby shelf. “That about does it. See you at the auditorium.”

You nod, recalling Plague Knight was going to give a quick seminar later. 

On your way out of the boiler room you can’t help but glance at the knight. He’s still messing around with a flask filled with that strange swirling, almost gaseous substance. Looking closer reveals distorted faces twisted into silent screams of anguish. Overall it bears an uncanny resemblance to the soul water from the Lich Yard.

That’s all you’re able to take in before the flask begins shaking in Plague Knight’s grasp. He manages to squeak out, “Not again! This is all I have left—”

The flask abruptly explodes in a shower of glass, the foggy substance floating up in a macabre display of screeching faces made of black and crimson tendrils. Faintly, you register a strange noise almost like multiple voices screaming on top of one another, but soon fades as the gaping expressions evaporate into nothing.

Mona rushes to Plague Knight’s side as he continues complaining. You take the opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed.

A few hours later you find yourself seated in the back row of the lab’s auditorium. 

It’s…quaint, really. The auditorium is a single room with several ascending rows, not unlike a fancy classroom. A simple wooden table sits before the first row of seats, the various burn marks covering its surface hinting it’s use as the teacher’s stand. Sitting benignly atop it are multiple flasks and glassware, all empty. 

You’re one of the first to arrive, and you quickly scurry to the back corner of the room. Although the curiosity burns bright within, something tells you it would be a dumb decision to have a first-row seat. Your thoughts are proved correct as more minions filter in, all clearly avoiding the most upfront seats.

Draak and Styx soon arrive, the latter sitting next to you. He wordlessly pulls out an inkwell and a few pieces of parchment from his sleeves before setting them on the bench. 

“I’m surprised you got here so early,” Draak chirps, mask pointed toward you. “This’ll be the first class since you arrived, you know!” He also pulls out various writing instruments and his own inkwell.

You shrug, instead saying, “I’m more surprised you knew it was me sitting back here.” You gesture to your brand-new robes and mask securely fastened over your face.

“You’re exceptionally short,” is all Styx says. You scowl at him but it goes unnoticed as he removes a couple of feather-pens. He offers one to you and you accept it, confused. “If you want to take notes; it’s not necessary, but I figured you might be interested.”

“Ah.” You nod once. “Yeah; thanks a bunch. I have to admit I’m kinda excited.”

“For good reason!” Draak says. “There’s always a ton of demonstrations, too! It’s really fun…unless you’re sitting in the first couple of rows.”

You all glance down and watch as the last dregs of minions hesitantly shuffle into the only available seats left, all at the front of the room. No sooner than they get situated does Plague Knight walk into the room with Mona following shortly thereafter. 

Everyone immediately stops chatting and the room is cloaked in silence as the small knight strolls up to the desk and dumps an armful of ingredients. With a flourish he says, “Today we will go over – _hee_ – Arcana and their effects!”

You perk up, interest piqued as he begins discussing their importance in alchemy and how only alchemists are the one ones capable of unlocking their potential. “Unlike useless Relics which are just trinkets imbibed with magic and require magic to use, Arcana are tools bestowed with enchantments which often multiply their effects! As a result, they don’t necessarily require magic to use; instead, magic is used predominantly during the crafting process…”

You find it rather surprising that when Plague Knight is teaching alchemy he doesn’t interrupt himself with nonsensical fits of laughter. Clearly, he’s the most infamous alchemist in all of Pridemoor for good reason; he certainly knows his trade.

As the lesson goes on you struggle to scribble down all the interesting details, growing more uneasy as you peek at Styx’s notes. Sure enough, the same indecipherable linear symbols greet your prying eyes and bears a stark contrast to your own loopy, round alphabet. Discreetly, you try to hide your script using your arm and hope no one guesses at your apparent illiteracy.

Excited murmurs drift through the air as Plague Knight removes a large pear-shaped bottle from the stand, a simmering green solution nestled inside. “This here is a rather – _hee hee_ – ‘explosive’ Arcana. Mona, if you would…?” 

The woman simply grins and snaps her gloved fingers, conjuring at least a dozen empty flasks above Plague Knight.

The glee in his voice is nearly palpable as he squeals, “Although unoriginal, I like to call it—”

Without waiting he flings the bottle skyward. As soon as it makes contact with the falling glassware it detonates in a truly massive explosion, a blue fog billowing out to engulf every single flask. 

“— _BIG BOOM_! Hahaha…!” Plague Knight finishes, ending with a familiar but still deranged laughter.

Someone begins to clap which is shortly followed by the entire auditorium. You can’t help but clap along, reveling in the fact there was no signs of an explosion; there was no glass rubble from the flasks, the blue fog dissipated almost immediately, and there was no lingering stench or other irritant.

You sort of wish you had access to such a thing when facing off against Specter Knight.

The seminar goes on like this, Plague Knight completely calm when discussing Arcana one moment and the next screeching like a lunatic as he demonstrates his other samples. Honestly you grew more and more surprised how this guy wasn’t dead yet, considering he willingly sliced his own skin open when showing off leech liquid’s healing properties. Sure he had to damage something else for it to take effect, but jeez…

“As you’ve seen, the enchantments placed on Arcana span time and even space. They have virtually unlimited use so long as you can conjure them again if they disappear after one use like with – heh – the big boom, or wait long enough as with the leech liquid. Thus concludes today’s lesson,” Plague Knight states.

Hastily, you finish scrawling down your notes and wait for the ink to completely dry. Folding the parchment, you look down and see others beginning to leave, a few staying behind to ask Plague Knight questions as he cleans up his supplies. 

Curiously, you watch him fumble when Mona approaches to help. He continues to flub and even stutter noticeably the closer she gets, giggling as if nervous. He stops when he turns to speak with a minion.

“Oh yeah.” Styx recaps his inkwell before putting it in his robe’s pocket. “He’s always like that around Mona. It’s…a little bit weird if you ask me.”

“I know, right?” Draak laughs, packing away his things. “I still find it weird he can even talk without interrupting himself with random laughs!”

Styx lets out an ugly snort. “If anyone can put up with him, it’s certainly Mona.”

“Huh.” You look away and shrug; not like it concerned you. Honestly you just wanted to collapse in your bed and nap the day away. You’ve been exceedingly tired ever since…well, almost dying. Speaking of which…

“Hey.” After you successfully capture your companion’s attentions, you ask them, “Didn’t you guys mention something about bombs and throwing them? It’d be nice if I could learn to…”

Your voice trails off when Draak and Styx share a wordless glance. The latter releases a rueful sigh and slaps a hand over his mask, clearly upset. Draak attempts and fails to stifle a groan.

“Let me get this straight,” Styx begins, voice strained. “You want to learn how to construct bombs after you almost blew yourself up? Do you have no self-preservation?”

Before you can answer, Draak inputs, “What he means to say is that we’re worried. And given the circumstances, why wouldn’t we be?” He pauses before whispering, “We were there when Plague Knight appeared in the boiler room, you know. We saw the shape you were in; it wasn’t pretty.”

You shrug half-heartedly. All you know is that you were probably bleeding to death and had a bunch of glass puncturing your chest. Sure you still had some minor scarring, but you were _fine_. Really.

Finally you heave a heavy sigh. “Fine. No bombs.” But before they can celebrate you level an expectant glare at Styx; not that he could see it or anything, but it’s the thought that counts. “I still want that burst potion. Something is better than nothing.”

“You’re insufferable,” he seethes in good humor, reaching into his sleeve to retrieve a pear-shaped bottle. He thrusts the thing in your direction and you happily grab it, giddily laughing under your breath at the green solution. You’ve missed sailing through the air and the freedom which came with it.

Feeling better with the weight of the burst potion in your grasp, you decide to rub salt in the wound. Similar to Plague Knight earlier, you lift the bottle skyward with a flourish, declaring a victorious, “ _Yes_!”

Dumbfounded silence meets your ears as a wicked smirk surfaces beneath your mask. 

Styx shakes his head as Draak begins to laugh with little restraint, shoulders quivering noticeably. The few remaining minions look back at your happy trio but none of you seem to care. 

Eventually the only ones left in the auditorium is your trio and the bumbling pair of Mona and Plague Knight. As you prepare to leave with the intention to nap until dinnertime, you walk down the steps chatting amiably with your friends, the weight of your burst potion familiar in your pocket.

Just as you’re about to exit through the entryway a sharp cough sound behind you.

Glancing back shows Plague Knight staring at you. While you’ve grown used to the general creepiness of his expressionless mask, it’s still unnerving when you find yourself the point of the knight’s interest. It’s like you’re a prepped specimen lying prone beneath a microscope; you feel _tiny_.

He tilts his head before stating, “You’re finally back on your feet; good, good.” With a quick wave of his hand, he excuses your friends and you listen to their retreating footsteps until they can’t be heard.

“I admit it was a – heh – _slight_ oversight not giving you any _real_ bombs,” Plague Knight says, a faint amusement present in his reedy words. “But you handled yourself admirably, all things considered! Speaking of which, I have a – _hee hee_ – new assignment for you.”

You watch him rummage through the indigo satchel at his waist, a distinct foreboding rooting itself in your stomach as he pries out another map. You accept the parchment quizzically, shooting a glance in Mona’s direction but she’s still cleaning up the table, attention elsewhere. Suddenly you find your sides exceptionally cold from where Draak and Styx should be.

Peeking down at the jumbled mess that is apparently the norm for Plague Knight’s maps, you notice the marked path is north from the village. Was he already sending you out on another scouting mission?

As if reading your mind, Plague Knight releases a short bout of laughter. “Since you’ve proven yourself resourceful, your new station will be at the Explodatorium until further notice. You depart in the morning.” And with that he waves his hand at you, dismissive.

You disguise your sigh as a small “Yes sir” before turning around and leaving the room.

Another sigh escapes you as you enter your room, shutting the door behind you. You haphazardly shove your notes in a drawer, hopefully hidden from snooping eyes. The newest map rests on top of your desk under a couple paperweights, reminding you to look over it later. You make a mental note to drill Draak and Styx about everything they know regarding the Explodatorium at dinner.

Satisfied, you shuffle over to your bed and collapse onto it in a heap. It won’t hurt if you nap for just a bit.

**—**

It came as a slight but altogether welcome surprise to know you weren’t travelling on your own. Well, mostly.

Turns out you’ll be accompanying a couple other minions along with the horse-man Percy. Apparently, as the resident engineer he was tasked with building a catapult outside of the other nearby settlement Armor Outpost. Aside from the plethora of materials used to craft armor and weaponry, there was a treasury filled with a multitude of money ripe for the taking. 

It doesn’t surprise you when you learn Plague Knight is far more interested in stealing the supplies than pocketing any money; alchemy was more often than not used to craft fake gold. More surprising is the fact you’re not too perturbed by your boss outright stealing from other, probably well-meaning people. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learning since waking up in this world, it’s that might makes right. Hence the Order of No Quarter.

As you traverse another dirt path alongside Percy – who really couldn’t stop blabbering when discussing his trade – and the other minions, you find your line of thought is shared. 

“I wonder how much stuff there is! We could be set for weeks if everything goes alright!”

“Hahaha, yeah! Those dolts won’t know what hit ‘em!”

You don’t really have much to input but you laugh along anyway. After all, since you’re the newest recruit you don’t really know how bad it is to be working under Plague Knight. From the gossip you’ve heard back at the lab, it’s not uncommon for your fellow robe-clad equals to have stones or harsh words thrown at them when walking through town to fetch something or other.

Overall the walk is pleasant, basking in the mild weather as you listen to Percy go on about ballistics and trajectory equations. While physics is definitely not your cup of tea, you do find it interesting how animated both the horse-man and the other minions are when discussing mathematics. To each their own.

Now if only you weren’t stuck in a time where the general populace probably still believed in miasma… 

With a relatively quick send-off, you wave goodbye at Percy and his entourage. They return the gesture and wish you well as you turn around, burst potion already simmering gently against your gloved hand.

The sun is beginning its descent, the sky cloaked in shades of orange and violet. The warm atmosphere bears a star contrast to the shadowy figure of the tower looming overhead. Glancing at it, you reckon it might be even taller than most of the concrete behemoths which are common in your own time. 

But the thoughts of your home fade away as you leap and bound across the path, giddy as the wind breezes past your robes. You’ve missed bursting across the land at high, perhaps alarming velocity. Even better is there’s seldom any other travelers out and about, likely too afraid with the Order in power. You do encounter a few monsters, but a quick burst and flap of your sleeves leaves them in the dust. 

Even though the sky is steadily darkening enough for the brightest stars to peek through the atmosphere, the shadowy visage of a large structure looms just beyond the horizon. Unlike the Tower of Fate it is comparatively short and stocky.

Just before the light overhead dies out completely, you land on the path and remove your map. While you certainly can’t read the linear symbols, the picture shows a building – likely the Explodatorium – with similar features as the silhouette in the distance. 

Satisfied, you roll up the parchment and move to put it back in your pocket when a faint _whoosh_ sounds behind you.

An icy dread wells within your stomach when you glance down and see an all-too-familiar crimson and black blade curving around your neck. 

“Perhaps it was a mistake to show you mercy.” How the _hell_ did everyone recognize you when not even a single inch of your skin showed?

You don’t really want this to end like last time, but the burst potion resting in you hand is already prepped and ready to explode. Your grip on the bottle tightens, straining to make the least amount of movement. All you needed to do was press the goddamn button on the valve—

A pained grunt is torn from you when your hand is hit, the bottle flying from your grasp and onto the path. 

“You dare think me a fool who would fall for the same trick again?” Your assailant hisses behind you. 

You don’t have any time to stew over his words as you reflexively duck beneath the blade, its edge managing to pry off your mask. You ignore it, crouching to jump at the burst potion. Even with the adrenaline coursing through your blood and enabling heightened senses, you still don’t expect the harsh _thunk_ reverberating through your skull. 

Dizziness overcomes you, vision swimming and uneven. You slowly stagger onto your hands and knees, the back of your skull pounding with dull pain. You can see the green potion lying just a few feet away. Desperately and perhaps vainly, you reach your hand out as far as you can.

Sure enough the action is futile as a sudden wind picks up, billowing around you. Like before it’s the only warning you get when sharp claws rake into you, grabbing your robes and lifting you back up to your feet. You grab the hand clutching the front of your robes in desperation, but before anything comes from the action you’re slammed into the trunk of a nearby tree.

A stunted gasp is forced from you. The resultant ache in your back and in your head are nothing compared to the icy fear seeping into every pore of your body when you see the golden visor filling your vision.

“I’ve no more time for games,” Specter Knight states, the scythe in his grip backing up his threat.

Struggling against his grip proves fruitless when he tightens his hold in response. But like the trapped animal you are you lash out haphazardly. A spike of pain shoots up your shin when you manage to hit the thick armor beneath his robes. More disconcerting is he doesn’t even flinch at the action.

“It’s pointless to resist,” his gravelly voice states. “And more thoughtless to expect another rescue from that _coward_.”

Through the fear and dread, unrestrained spite decides to rear its ugly head. Without much thought other than to deliberately upset the ghoulish knight, you spit, “He stopped you from killing me. Pretty noble for a _coward_.”

“He wasn’t saving _you_ but protecting another _resource_ for his deranged experiments!” Specter Knight roars.

You hold your breath as your heart hammers away. The dull _thump-thumps_ echoing in your chest are the only thing you hear in the resulting silence. 

Still the adrenaline flows through you, mind moving a mile a minute trying to rationalize why this is happening. He could have easily just killed you before instigating you, much less giving away his potion by speaking. Unless he was deliberately trying to tell you something.

… _Answers_.

Tongue heavy and mouth dry, you manage to choke out, “What…?”

“That alchemist only cares about himself and his experiments,” Specter Knight hisses, clearly upset. “Just as I was, you are merely an accessory to his desires. He doesn’t care about you; he only wanted your _essence_.”

Vaguely, you recognize the term but remain unfamiliar with what constitutes an essence. While it may be true Plague Knight was constantly prattling on and on about them, he never clarified _what_ they are. 

Suddenly the boiler room and the Dynamo Decanter housed within come to mind. You recall the largest container and the beautiful swirling masses held within. Before your departure to the Lich Yard a mass of purple and gold glimmered away inside the tank, and after your recovery a similar substance of crimson and gold accompanied the first. Coupled with the fact Specter Knight mentioned Plague Knight being a traitor…

It seems likely he’s harvesting the essences of the other members of the Order.

Considering the fact the knights of the Order of No Quarter are regarded as the strongest in all of Pridemoor, their essences must reflect their might. Although you have a rudimentary understanding of alchemy and its capabilities, whatever Plague Knight wanted them for would surely prove to be frightening in its potential.

So then why did he want your essence so bad…?

“It doesn’t matter,” you murmur half to yourself and half at the knight hovering before you. Glaring up at the visor adorning Specter Knight’s face, you say, “At least to him I’m worth more alive than dead. _That’s_ what matters.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, instead opting for silence. The faint chirps of insects fill the woods around you.

Finally he responds, “I thought you noble for accepting death. And here I’m the fool for failing to recognize you have no fear of dying.” He pauses to tighten his grip on your robes. “The only kinds of people who bear that mindset are those with nothing to lose.”

You don’t nod or make any motion to agree with his claim; your silence is telling enough.

“And yet…” Specter Knight’s raspy voice interrupts your thoughts. “I watched him pry the essence from your body. I am not so stupid as to not realize the sheer power it possessed. Was your pathetic display before merely a charade?”

He pauses his rant only to shove you against the tree harshly before releasing his hold on your robes. You stagger a bit and hold your arms in front of you protectively as he preps to swing the scythe. In the dying light and looming overhead in a menacing display, you recognize his title suits him perfectly. 

“How _dare_ you—” Specter Knight snarls before swinging his arm and embedding the scythe directly besides you in a shower of splintered wood, “— _toy with me_!”

Specter Knight’s clawed hand shoots out to clutch your robes again. For how spindly he appears, he is far stronger than you given how he effortlessly lifts and holds you aloft until your toes barely reach the ground.

“And you continue to taunt me by playing the fool?” He growls, grip tightening on his scythe.

All the fear clogging your senses is replaced with rage, bitter and scalding through your vessels like poison.

Without warning you lash out and grab onto Specter Knight’s mantle, pulling the cloth and its body closer. He is clearly taken aback but you ignore his surprised grunt. 

“ _What do you know about me_?” You seethe. “You know _nothing_ , just as _I_ do.”

You can’t see between the dark spaces in his visor, but you realize Specter Knight must be confused given how he remains silent. The longer he refuses to say anything the more you feel your expression contort from anger to despair, eyes flitting rapidly between the holes of his mask. Still he says nothing.

The scowl pulling at your lips opens into an ugly grimace. Subjugation claws at your insides and leaks into your voice. “I have nothing to lose because I cannot remember anything _to_ lose.”

Lies. Slight, but present. But it’s easier not to think about such things.

A mirthless laugh escapes you. “If Plague Knights sees my worth as being just another resource, then _fine_. At least then I’m someone; something.”

Your hands quiver not from the receding wrath but emotional fatigue as Specter Knight bows his head once before removing your fingers from his mantle. You don’t resist, instead continuing to look into his visor for any sort of response, anything to indicate he believes you.

Instead the knight pries his scythe from the tree and continues to ignore you. You don’t say anything, simply wait for him to either kill you or leave you alone. Maybe the waiting will kill you instead.

He hovers in front you, golden visor angled down and glinting in the dregs of light still left in the sky. His crimson robes and black mantle stir gently in unseen winds. The scythe in his hand rests loosely beside him.

Specter Knight finally speaks. “Your devotion to that alchemist will be your ruin.”

You don’t say anything in response. His perceived hypothesis is, in reality, an observation. You would stop at nothing to please him.

Another brief silence encompasses you before the winds surrounding Specter Knight pick up. His crimson robes flutter violently before his form contorts, seemingly bending in on itself before disappearing completely. 

Once sure he is truly gone, you pick yourself up and mechanically continue where you left off. You trudge onto the dirt path and pick up your mask. You secure it to your hood before picking up the pear-shaped bottle lying on the ground and agitate the solution inside. You burst and continue bursting toward the Explodatorium’s silhouette against the dusk sky. 

Eventually you reach the massive building. Upon seeing your minion robes, the pair guarding the front door allow you entrance. Other minions greet you and escort you to your temporary room, promising to tell you more about your job in the morning.

While your new room is more spacious than the one back at the lab, it’s furnishings are identical. You unpack your meager belongings and try to alleviate the echoing emptiness you feel; it doesn’t.

So you simply remove your mask and flop onto the bed, sleep following shortly thereafter. 

**—**

Times passes strangely here.

The artificial lights coating the ceiling burn your eyes. Even through the think plastic goggles wrapped around your head, the light reflects off almost every surface until it’s nearly blinding.

Maybe it would be better if the lights did blind you. 

You feel your shoulders shake but nothing comes out of your mouth. That would be too easy.

A quick glance at blaring numbers shows your shift is almost done. You look at the scores of test tubes and well plates dotting your bench. You think of all the lives you’ve just destroyed. You think of the stark white lab coat covering nearly every inch of your skin, the lenses hiding your eyes and the mask protecting your face.

Maybe the tiny enigmas you’ve experimented on all day will take you too, someday.

But until then this is enough. 

You’re satisfied studying their unparalleled capabilities despite their size. The sheer scope of their possibilities is nearly limitless, give or take years of dedicated research and procedures. You adore them for their potential and resilience. 

In experienced hands they could be the tiniest of miracles. You look at your purple latex-clad hands. No miracles would be conducted by these appendages. Instead you’ve perpetuated more suffering, more death.

A strange emptiness wells within instead of the guilt you expect.

The space where your heart rests pangs with every beat as you make your way outside the blinding room. The pristine tiled hallway is no different, ethereal white and reeking of sanitation. You don’t stop to look through the windows of the other rooms, don’t think about the experiments going on here.

It’s easier not to think about such things.

But sometimes it’s too hard to ignore them.

More coat-clad individuals pass you, more garbled words are exchanged, more ignorance abounds. You all know your place in this machine, revel in the science but hollowed from the rational. There are boundaries laid between knowledge and wisdom, but never was morality accounted for.

Someone once said with great power comes great responsibility.

No one ever said how to go about it.

Things were never meant to escalate so far, but how could they not? Science is a gift and a curse, a benevolent entity and apocalyptic force wrapped in tandem. Ultimately, it is merely an unruly extension of one’s self.

Tragedies have happened in the past and will continue to occur so long as everyone is free to believe what they want. It’s an inescapable cycle you either endure or perpetrate. Science is no different; it is not beneficial or detrimental. It merely is. How depends on its user.

And you are no different.

You like to believe science is the pinnacle of knowledge. With driven minds and hands it will contort until achieving the desired result. Imagination is the limit, but it is not considered foolish to dabble in logic. 

It’s selfish, perhaps callous of you to also enjoy the wonders of science at another’s expense. How else could you manifest a miracle if there was nothing wrong to begin with? There is beauty in disorder, too.

But it doesn’t matter what you think. The only thing that matters is if you’re oiled enough to fit into the machine.

Science is expected, one way or another. In the grand scheme of things you are just a servant to its potential. You do not have the clearance to unravel its endless secrets.

But this is enough.

You will return the next day, and the following day, even the day after that. You will function as expected.

Pinch this, fill that, drop here, discard there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm such a sucker for dream sequences. Anyways, I think this chapter's the moment when the reader's personality and goals are revealed. Obtusely, at least.
> 
> If you've read this far, I can only hope you've enjoyed it!


	5. The Chivalrous Hermit

As vague as his instructions were last morning, you were smart enough not to question Plague Knight’s sanity.

…what even was a ‘blue menace’? 

Shrugging to yourself, you continue exploring the vibrant green – seems like everywhere in the Explodatorium was green – hallways and think about the instructions the fanatic knight gave. 

Apparently, there’s a brave knight who’s challenging all the members of the Order of No Quarter. Accompanying the rumors is the fact this blue-plated guy already bested both King and Specter Knight. Considering your boss is also a member, a confrontation between them seems inevitable.

Given Plague Knight knew you managed to survive your encounter with the reaper, he thought you fit to guard his original lab within the Explodatorium. Not that you were judging him or anything, but it was just sheer stupid luck you lived last time. Who’s to say this blue menace won’t result in a similar situation?

But it’s not like Plague Knight just left his lab completely unguarded save for the on-station minions; the whole place was rigged to punish any wayward trespasser. The ground level was filled to the brim with traps ranging from spontaneously flaming tiles to electronically powered lifts which descended into seemingly endless abysses. And that wasn’t even getting into all the animals either carrying explosives or are rigged to explode.

At least the place fit its name, all things considered.

You watch as another macawbe soars overhead, carrying a beaker filled with simmering liquid as its cloak of poisonous gas leaves a trail in its wake. According to the other minions who gave you a quick tour earlier, macawbes are useful for receiving and sending supplies. When you asked what they were, they simply told you they’re ravens Plague Knight experimented on; you left it at that.

Turns out the knight also experimented on other animals too. 

While you were at first disgusted by all the green rats running around, you quickly learned they were sentries. True to their name, ratsploders explode when hit or when placed under noticeable force. Unfortunately, you learned this the hard way by accidentally tripping over one as its detonation sent you flying like a poorly timed burst. Why were they the same stupid color as the bricks making up the floor?

Luckily most of the animal sentries here recognize minion robes and won’t attack on sight. The only ones you had to be weary about were the fairies; the floating gray _things_ were unruly at best.

But you still found exploring the vast, nearly cavernous halls to be exciting if a bit lonely. You kind of missed both Draak and Styx, but you’re sure you’ll see them again soon enough.

Since you were still the newest recruit you didn’t have a lot of say in the various laboratory experiments being conducted, nor did you have the clearance to help maintain the power throughout the entire facility. While there was someone you were supposed to report to when Plague Knight wasn’t present – some bearded guy known as the Alchemeister – you had absolutely no idea where he could be.

So you’ve wandered everywhere your interest took you. 

You curse inwardly as the barrel beneath you shudders before imploding, sending you skyward and as well as your heart rate. Even if you’ve only been at the Explodatorium for half a day, the sheer number of things spontaneously exploding is both incredibly baffling and irritating. 

Desensitized but privy to the rumbling of an oncoming blast, you remove your burst potion and put it to good use. 

It doesn’t take you long to find an automated lift descending into the basement of the place. While your sense of direction may leave much to be desired, you were certain you could find your way back to your room or any of the labs. With that encouragement you jump onto a platform.

Turns out the basement of the Explodatorium is riddled with pipes overflowing with water. More absurd yet were all the gaps between the floors; peeking down one showed only an inky abyss not unlike all the ravines in the Lich Yard. What, was this place built on a foundation of fissures or something?

Scowling beneath your mask, you prep for another burst and jump across the various platforms. The thick streams of water soak your leggings, furthering your poor mood. Still your curiosity wins and you continue exploring the aqueducts beneath the facility.

Navigating your way through the watery depths of the Explodatorium paid off. Well, sort of. While you eventually discovered a back room filled to the brim with bookshelves and books – among other miscellaneous items – you were certain you couldn’t read any of the tomes. 

Nevertheless, you browse through the books and trail a gloved finger over the spines. Most of them were aged, decrepit withered things barely held together. 

You nearly trip over yourself when you realize you can actually read some of the spines.

Doing a double-take, you reread the familiar loopy letters staring back at you. Sure enough, the title _Theory and History of Ancient Alchemy_ written in faded golden ink splays across the torn, ragged remains of a forest green spine. With great care you pluck the book from the shelf, glad your mask prevents the cloud of resultant dust from irritating your eyes and nose.

Cradling the tome to our chest, you browse the rest of the bookshelf and find a few more written in the only alphabet you know. You reach up, grabbing the book titled _Pridemoor: A General History_ , hoping it will alleviate some of the stress of knowing almost nothing of the world you currently reside in.

Content with your mild collection and the fact you may not be illiterate after all, you make your way through the various shelves until you find a decrepit wooden chair. Dusting the cobwebs off, you sit down and ignore the loud creaking. It seemed like everything down here was abandoned or forgotten about.

Well, not like you don’t enjoy the solitude.

You pry open the leathery cover of the alchemy book, far more interested in learning about the practice than boring history lessons of lands and kingdoms. Honestly, it was exhilarating to be able to read something; you were still glad you could speak the same language as everyone else, but you can’t remember the last time you read anything.

So you sit alone in silence, mulling over the thick parchment and the inky words imprinted on each page. For a relatively archaic piece of literature, it was still easy to understand everything unlike other classical books.

You don’t know how long you sit, but you learn quite a few interesting facts. For starters, the entire history section began with a stunted introduction regarding the intersection of magic and science to form alchemy; what was surprising to learn was that magic was once frowned upon like alchemy is today. Anything ‘unnatural’ or otherworldly was considered the work of a devil or demon. Science was the only accepted art of the three.

But over time more scholars began to study and formulate laws regarding magic, and anything with distinct laws or identifiable logic was generally accepted. Very superficial, but at the same time very expected of people with classical mindsets. 

You even learned about those pretty gems you found peeking out of random dirt piles so long ago. Apparently, there are “pores” throughout the world’s magic circulatory system, kind of like leaks in pipes. Except the leaks result in gems due to being influenced by the ores the magic encountering during its underground cycle…or something. You weren’t too certain, but it explained why the jewels formed already properly cut.

Another neat tidbit of information you read about were cipher coins. They were these coins made of some mysterious green alloy which, for some reason, enabled an alchemist to slightly bypass one of the most basic rules: equivalent exchange. Cipher coins could be transmuted into anything, give or take a well-practiced alchemist. Of course, they would still be used up during the process, and since their makeup is unknown, impossible to make more.

While it’s assumed cipher coins are made similarly to the jewels from magic “pores” throughout the world, they don’t reappear after some time has passed. Even more is the fact they are widely believed to be the precursor to the mythical philosopher’s stone. 

Surprisingly, there isn’t much written about the legendary stone other than it would allow an alchemist to completely and unlimitedly bypass equivalent exchange. The text is pretty wishy-washing regarding the matter whether or not a real philosopher’s stone was actually made, but the implications of it being…less than ethical explained why such procedures wouldn’t be included. Not to say that your interest wasn’t piqued; on the contrary you only wished you could know more. 

Which is why you were ecstatic when the next section detailed something not directly named, but you knew it was parallel with an essence. 

About time you got your damned answers.

Settling down, you begin reading about essences, oddly enough referred to as ‘matter,’ and their capabilities. As it turns out you were right in your prediction of their potency regarding their sheer power. Basically, an essence is unique to an individual which grows and subtly changes as they do. 

While a large portion of the text is jargon writing around itself multiple times, you gleaned the most important fact: an essence is an individual’s potential. 

The harvesting of an essence is…difficult, to say the least. Since it is embedded within a person so deeply, to take any of that matter requires the original body to be indisposed in some way. The most common method of procuring a sliver of essence is to beat the body into unconsciousness. Given that a person’s consciousness is akin to the gateway guarding the essence, it makes sense.

You can’t stop the small snort. Of course your demented boss would beat the other members of the Order into submission given the chance; it’d just be more testing for his bombs and tricks. Experiment this, experiment that.

Then again, the Order would undoubtedly have the strongest essences, just by virtue of being the strongest knights of the land and therefore having the most potential. Beyond them, there’s the Enchantress who’s in charge…would Plague Knight attempt to go after her essence, too? How powerful would hers be?

You shake your head; not like it’s any of your business. 

The memory of that horrid swirling mass of red and black screaming faces surfaces. Then there was the ghastly shriek once the flask containing it broke…Was that an essence? Was it yours? Specter Knight mentioned some of your essence was stolen, but it was so different compared to the ones in the Dynamo Decanter…

You figure it doesn’t really matter. Better not to think about things you have no hope of figuring out.

You keep reading, discovering more about essences and how they’re considered to be a mostly reliable substitute for a philosopher’s stone. For one, essences only snuff out with a person’s death but if some is taken, the essence will regain its former ‘amount’ after some time passes. Still, unlike the mythical stone, essences were highly volatile and required the utmost care and precision when it came to stabilizing them.

Objectively, essences seemed like the best alternative if not outright better that philosopher’s stones. It was written right there is black ink; essences were unlimited, give or take some time. Essences even procured more ways to ignore equivalent exchange. After all, they could be used to craft things not made of physical matter; instead, it could potentially grant a wish if enough potential was gathered.

…maybe. You liked to think such an outcome could be feasible with all this information. You’d even like to have a go at it if there wasn’t a suspicious lack of how to obtain an essence from an unconscious person.

You turn the page, the crinkling of the heavy parchment echoing faintly in the empty room.

A small cough interrupts your thoughts and you let out an undignified gasp. For once glad the mask covering your face hides your embarrassed flush, you rapidly turn toward the origin of the sudden noise. 

Standing before you is the towering visage of an old man dressed sharply in gold and violet robes. You can’t tell what he’s thinking due to the obscuring light glinting off his glasses’ frames, but he is undoubtedly looking down at you. A quick glance around shows only the two of you. How the hell did he sneak up on you?

Surprisingly, the huge beard covering the man’s mouth doesn’t muffle his words. “I apologize for my abrupt appearance. Then again, it’s rare to find a minion in these collections.”

You don’t say anything but nod to show you’re listening.

“Though I must admit my curiosity…” The man continues. He then gestures to the book currently open in your lap. “It’s not often others can decipher the old script. Can you truly read this?”

You feel your heart palpitate beneath your thick robes, embarrassment melting away into anxiety. How were you going to explain you couldn’t really read the ‘current script’?

“Uh.” You try to collect your thoughts before settling on, “Yeah; I mean, I can read it.” Then, almost like an afterthought you add, “Practice makes perfect, right?” There. Almost believable. Maybe.

The old man hums thoughtfully before stating, “Not many can read that alphabet, even historians with a talent for linguistics.” Okay, sounds like maybe your apparent skill wasn’t believable. “Perhaps you can help me with my own deciphering; many alchemy recipes are written in the old script, and I am nothing if not an alchemist.”

With that he begins to leave, and after a confused pause you get up and make to follow him. He glances back at you and immediately stops. “Oh my. It seems we haven’t met; so many minions, after all. I am the Alchemeister. And I assume you are the newest recruit…?”

Again, you’re glad he can’t see the glower adorning your face. Were you really that short to be recognizable on sight?

Not trusting your voice to hide your dissent, you simply nod. 

The Alchemeister continues walking among the bookshelves, looking for a specific tome no doubt. He plucks a rather thin book from the highest shelf before flipping through it. “Although I can read some of the old script, I’m having difficulty with this particular experiment.”

He hands off the open book and you accept it. You peek down at the words and skim them as the Alchemeister says, “I believe this is a recipe for a particularly potent explosive. Perhaps you can translate the procedure for me?”

This must be a test. After all, the recipe is just one page, covered by a few measly steps. 

You begin to read the list of ingredients and their given amounts, but the man shakes his head and asks for the steps. 

You repeat the procedure word for word. “Begin by dissolving a silver coin in the _aqua fortis_ to obtain _lapis infernalis_. Dissolve the _caustic soda_ crystals into the _lapis infernalis_ until dissolved. Use a conversion transmutation to transform the solution from liquid into a solid; the result should be a fine black powder known as _silver rust_. Dissolve the _silver rust_ into the _spirits of hartshorn_.”

You pause and look at the simple circle drawn below the notes. You make a mental note to copy it down before continuing. “Repeat the transmutation to obtain a dark green powder; this is _fulminating silver_. Finally, dissolve the fulminating silver into the _golden vitriol_.” You decide against repeating the cautions and explanations of how to set off the final bomb.

A beat of silence soon follows. The Alchemeister looks down at you appraisingly before clapping his hands together.

“Well done! I must admit I already translated that recipe and was merely challenging you, but your talents appear legitimate. No hesitation whist reading…how curious…” The old man mutters the last phrase under his breath before gesturing for the book. 

After replacing the volume to its original place on the shelf, the Alchemeister turns toward you. “There’s a lift in the back; it leads directly up to the lab.” So that’s how he snuck up on you.

Before he can leave, you hurriedly ask, “W-wait! Is there, uh, anything I’m supposed to be doing…?”

The Alchemeister simply strokes his long beard. “Hmm…I suppose you could help me actually decipher more old script, but that would be selfish to Plague Knight’s wishes, I’m sure.” He then looks at you inquisitively. “Did you find your way to this library through the aqueducts?”

“Uhhh.” Why couldn’t you just speak like a normal person? “With all the pipes and water…?” You jerk a thumb back at the door you originally used and basement behind it.

He nods once before commenting, “Impressive, though I suppose it’s to be expected. You were sent here to serve as a scout due to your aptitude for burst jumping, were you not?”

“I don’t actually, um, know,” you admit. “Plague Knight just said to watch out for a ‘blue menace’…?”

Surprisingly, the Alchemeister returns a hearty chuckle. “Ah, yes, I also suppose it’s to be expected; the master is never clear with his orders.”

His laughs die out and he strokes his beard again. “If I had to guess, I would assume it would be that cerulean knight coming to challenge the master. I’ve heard rumors he’s already bested both King and Specter Knight on his quest.”

Well, good enough, you guess. He should be easily recognizable considering everything in the Explodatorium is green. 

“Perhaps you should find a station in the upper levels; you’d be of more use there than down here.” You glance up at the man and see some wry winkles at the corners of his still-hidden eyes. You nod in agreement with a short “Okay” tacked on.

With a short goodbye the old man leaves via the lift he spoke of. 

After waiting a minute, you decide against continuing lazing about and actually do as the old man suggested.

**—**

You’ve been relaxing for a few days, all things considered.

Once you established a suitable position to encounter a potential intruder – a few winding hallways from the entrance to boot – you’ve been on idle lookout ever since. After the first day when nothing really happened aside from an accident involving a kettleleg accidentally exploding a macawbe, you learned to bring your chosen books to read in the meantime.

Even while maintaining a lax lookout you manage to help the Alchemeister with his research. Turns out your chosen station was pretty close with the old man’s personal lab, and once he noticed you sitting like a lump, happily reading away, he’s offered a few things for you to translate. You still hid the fact you couldn’t read or write the current script by instead verbally repeating everything; it was faster, after all.

But today the Alchemeister wasn’t in his lab, so you didn’t have anything to help him with. Content with the fact, you sit down on your personal ledge and instead open the book of Pridemoor’s history.

While it’s entertaining learning about alchemy and its admittedly controversial history, you’ve already finished those sections, and reading recipe after recipe grows stagnant. Thus you began to read your other book, already familiarizing yourself with the valley.

In all honestly, it was rather boring when compared to all the drama about alchemy.

You find yourself skimming over the words instead of actively absorbing them. You happen upon a section regarding a long-lost kingdom before the current empire was established when the lights overhead abruptly flicker before going out completely. 

A sudden hush falls over the Explodatorium. You sit and wait, removing the book from your lap and reaching into your sleeve for the pear-shaped bottle. 

The blackout lasts only a minute or two before the lights flicker back to life. 

The familiar buzz of electricity greets your ears as you stand up and survey around you. Even if you haven’t been at the Explodatorium long, you know this wasn’t a normal occurrence. 

Your gut feeling is proven right only mere seconds later when another minion bursts onto another platform near yours. They gasp behind their mask before looking at you.

“T-there was a slight malfunction and now everything’s gone haywire!” They say. As they prime their own potion to burst again, they hastily apologize before warning you, “I’ve also received reports of an intruder! Be careful!” 

You watch as they burst away, leaving you to your lonesome. 

Nothing of particular note seems to happen in the following moments, but you can faintly hear explosions going off and…confused screaming? You don’t really like the sound of that.

So you quickly pick up your book and replace it onto a nearby shelf before resuming your position. Your burst potion rests in your grip as you maintain a fervent lookout over the hallway, all the while ignoring the various muffled booms and stifled cries echoing beyond. 

Anxiety floods through your system. Figuring it won’t take too long, you quickly dart into the nearby lab and hastily pilfer a couple of the bombs resting on a shelf. Sure, maybe you’re stealing from the Alchemeister, but you two did make these fulminating silver-based bombs together, so technically they were also yours.

Also: bombs. _Finally_ , you got your goddamn bombs.

Tucking the small bottles into your sleeve, you leave the lab and return to your ledge. The blast potion nestled against your palm proves to be a sliver of comfort as you listen to far-off yells. Still the adrenaline begins to course through your system.

You nearly jump when a stranger clad in cerulean armor turns around the corner of your hallway. 

Hastily prepping your burst potion, you observe your opponent. He’s…small. Probably even smaller than both you and Plague Knight, which was really saying something.

But what the knight lacks in height he more than makes up for in sheer girth. For such a tiny guy, his armor was robust and tailored to fit around his sturdy build. And much like every knight you’ve met thus far, a helmet adorns his head and obscures his face. You internally admit the horns look kinda cool, too.

Wait. Was he holding…was that a...a shovel…? 

After a moment of vaulting over more exploding barrels and landing on another ledge, the mysterious interloper finally notices you. His head perks up and he instantly brings his shovel – which is notably longer than he is tall, jeez – up in a defensive position.

You hold up your burst potion in response.

The knight surprises you by then speaking. “I do not wish to harm you. If you would please move aside and let me pass, things won’t have to get violent.”

Well. That’s a first. A knight who is actually kind of nice and doesn’t extort or outright try to kill you?

Still befuddled by the fact this tiny man is apparently wielding a shovel, of all things, and requesting you to stand down for your own good, you remain silent. Then—

“Uhhh.” Goddamnit, why does this always happen. Think before you speak! “Um.” No, not like that!

The knight then tilts his head as if confused, edging on your hidden embarrassment. The bubbling of your burst potion fizzles out with the remaining tension. 

A beat of silence passes.

“Uh, that’s…uh, p-pretty nice of you, I guess…” You stutter, trying and failing to ignore how stifling hot it is behind your mask with the sheer humiliation you feel. 

Idly scratching the back of your head, you then admit, “Sorry, but I-it’s kind of my job to stop…intruders…”

He waits a moment before replying, “I assure you we don’t have to fight if you would just allow me passage. Truly; I am a knight of my word.”

Helplessly, you shrug your shoulders. “I’m sorry, I really am since you seem so nice—” Did you really just say that out loud? “—but I can’t afford to let you go without trying to stop you.” _I don’t want to disappoint Plague Knight_ goes unsaid, thankfully.

Still somehow amicable, the blue knight says, “Then I am sorry as well.” 

With that, he raises his shovel and jumps at you.

As you barely burst out of the way – that stupid shovel had an equally stupidly long reach – a wave of relief washes over you. What with how nice this guy seems, you feel pretty confident he won’t outright kill you; rather, he seems like the type to incapacitate. All in all much preferable to that scythe-wielding maniac.

But this tiny knight is sure giving you a run for your money, that’s for sure. He’s light on his feet, a surprising feat given how heavy his armor looks and sounds when he moves. 

You hurriedly burst upward as he closes in again, swinging his shovel viciously. You curse inwardly as he also jumps to meet you in the air. He’s too quick to really hit him with your burst’s explosion, and your potion is a bit too slow prepping for the next jump.

As best you can, you flap your sleeves to try and dodge the impending swing. You’re not fast enough when the shining spade of the shovel smacks your shoulder harshly, a pained hiss coming from you.

You right your momentum before landing and try to shake off the dull throbbing; it would be a gnarly bruise come a day or so. The knight lands and rushes you once more.

Mind moving a mile a minute, you shake your burst potion and attempt to wait for the perfect moment. It presents itself when he swings his shovel and you quickly dodge by hopping to the side. The edge of the shovel manages to graze your side but it’s a small price to pay.

Releasing the internal pressure of your potion, you burst point-blank in the knight’s face. The familiar green fog swirls around the two of you before the explosion propels you skyward and flings him backward.

Unfairly so, the knight remains upright. Still in the air and rapidly approaching the man who’s prepping to swipe once you’re in range, you again wait. He swings only seconds before you flap your sleeves for an extra jump.

You realize your mistake when you begin descending directly onto the knight.

Not wanting to skewer yourself on his massive horns, you make what is probably the best and worst decision: you reel back and kick him right in his blue face.

The immediate stabbing pain of multiple stubbed toes makes your eyes water behind your mask, but it’s more than worth it when the abrupt kick shoves the knight to the ground in a heap. The satisfaction lasts a brief moment as you listen to the cacophony of clinks and clanks his armor makes after flopping onto the ground. But then you land and the pain of your stunted toes reminds you of your brilliant idiocy.

Hopping around on your good foot, you shake your burst potion until it’s ready. When the blue knight picks himself off the ground with a quick shake of his helmeted head, you activate the valve and burst in his face again.

As you’re propelled backward, you reach into your sleeve to retrieve one of your bombs. Hoping the green fog of your explosion will obscure his vision, you hurl the bomb directly at him. You can’t help the gasp when you watch it explode into an array of smaller, compact blasts. Wow.

The brilliant yellow-green lights of the bomb die out, revealing the groveling knight. He’s using his shovel as a makeshift support but shortly stands up, appearing no worse for wear. Even his cerulean armor isn’t dirtied, still mockingly glimmering under the artificial lights of the hallway.

Wasn’t strong enough to incapacitate…maybe next time you should add more fulminating silver?

The knight takes the opportunity to dash at you, shovel held high. You attempt to burst above him but he immediately sees through you and also jumps. You barely have time to flap your sleeves before he swings at you but, being the slow oaf you are, the spade makes full contact with your body.

A pained grunt escapes you as you fly backward into a wall. You pry yourself to your feet and prepare to burst only to hastily dodge another of his swings. The spade harshly grates against the bricks and you flail with your burst potion. Activating the valve, you jump away in a green blast.

Firmly aware of how outclassed you are, you disregard trying to save your last bomb and instead hurl it as hard as you can. 

You feel your eyes widen when the knight simply swings his shovel at the incoming bottle. Instead of exploding on contact, the spade redirects the bomb straight at you instead. The self-lighting fuse is short; short enough that you know it will explode in the air along with you.

Vainly, you try to flap away and out of the explosion’s range but it’s too late. 

The yellow-green lights of every individual blast ignites your vision into white and sends you flying. Momentarily blinded, you can’t right your momentum and end up smashing into the hard floor, skidding until you meet the bottom of your ledge. Your head snaps back and a silent gasp is wretched from you. 

You struggle to pull yourself to your feet, instead clawing at the brick floor. But then a curious sound meets your ears, almost like a faint whistling.

Then you realize the sound is coming from above you.

Hastily, you fling yourself haphazardly across the ground. Despite the dizziness brought on by the action, you watch as the blue knight descends to the ground, riding his shovel like a spear. It impales the brick floor so thoroughly the spade sinks into the rubble.

You’re glad you moved out of the way in time; you definitely don’t want to be hit by that. Also: not very nice for a seemingly nice guy.

Pushing yourself off the ground, you take the chance and instead rush the knight as he struggles to pry his shovel from the ground. You explode in front of him just as he frees his spade and swings it.

Flapping to give yourself more momentum, you leap back and wait. At this point all you can hope is to stall this knight enough for backup to arrive. Well, _if_ ; all those screams earlier weren’t very reassuring.

The green fog of your burst dissipates abruptly, a glowing red orb shooting out toward you.

It’s entirely unexpected – was that magic? – and all you can do is hold up your arms in front of you in some attempt at protection. As soon as the mysterious orb makes contact with your sleeves does a searing heat encompass you. It was a stupid fire spell.

A choked yelp escapes you as you flail about, trying to put out the flames licking at your sleeves. Maybe you should’ve invested in those chemical-coated robes…

Regret tinges your insides as the heat dissipates along with the flames. Then you recall you’re currently engaged in battle and look up only to be smacked in the face with the blunt side of a shovel.

You stumble and try to remain upright but fail as you trip onto the floor. A groan rumbles out of your mouth as the knight stands directly over you with the spade’s handle pointed directly at you. You fumble with your burst potion, but before the solution becomes agitated does the knight bring down his shovel’s handle. It drops onto the back of your head, in the same exact spot Specter Knight bludgeoned a few days prior.

Immediately your vision swims and blurs all at once. Another pained moan escapes you while you ignore the small black dots encroaching at the corners of your sight. 

Well, if you weren’t before you sure as hell were concussed now.

Even through the dizziness and overwhelming desire to let unconsciousness take you, without thinking you latch onto the retreating foot of the knight. He heaves a surprised gasp and nearly trips before looking down at you. As with most of the helmets and masks you’ve seen, an indistinguishable inky abyss greets your stare. 

But he’s not making to hit your prone form, only tilting his head questioningly at you. C’mon, just stall a little bit more. Many thoughts run through your mind but nothing comes out of your mouth. Just—anything, spit anything out—

“D-don’t kill him,” you tiredly plead. 

“…” The cerulean knight simply continues looking at your masked face. Then, “I don’t plan to.”

Relief floods your system as your remaining strength ebbs away. The knight then steps out of your weakened grasp and continues on his way, vaulting over your ledge without looking back.

Well. No one could say you didn’t try; you’d actually landed a few hits, no less!

Then again, you got a front row seat to just how formidable this knight was. No wonder he was more than capable of directly challenging the Order of No Quarter.

And he was surprisingly nice about beating you up, too. Maybe it’s an insignificant betrayal, but you find yourself kind of rooting for the cerulean knight and his apparent quest to beat up all the other knights of the Order.

You cling on to consciousness for as long as you’re able but soon enough the darkness takes you. 

It doesn’t last too long, however.

After what feels like a few minutes something nudges your side. The darkness flickers as you blearily open your eyes before shutting them against the harsh artificial lights overhead. The thing nudging you begins to increase in frequency and strength, shoving you onto your back. The motion forces a tired groan from you.

A beat of silence. Then; “Get up already!”

Oh. You’d recognize that angry squawking anywhere. 

Begrudgingly you rise from the floor, holding your pounding head all the while. You shoot a quizzical glance at Plague Knight standing above you, but it probably goes unnoticed due to your mask. Likewise you can’t really tell what he’s thinking because of his own.

“Well?” Plague Knight hovers over you, clearly irritated. “Did you run into that blasted blue knight or what?”

You bite back an answer without filtering the bluntness. “R-run into him? He set me on fire then practically knocked me out.” Then hot shame causes you to amend the rudeness of your words. “But I-I tried to stop him—” 

“Yes, yes,” Plague Knight nonchalantly interrupts you. “Now where did he run off to? I can’t afford to have some interloper put my latest experiments at risk!”

Wordlessly you point at the ledge the cerulean knight hopped over. 

Plague Knight heaves a sigh and mumbles under his breath about how incompetent his minions are. You feel a slight sting but otherwise don’t care too much; at this point you just want to go back to being unconscious.

Without another word the robed knight leaps away using his own burst, leaving you to your own devices. Still dizzy and tired, you don’t hesitate to lie back down on the floor and resume the comforting blackness of sleep.

**—**

You awaken to the same artificial lights hanging overhead, lying uncomfortably on the cold brick floor. Just as you begin gathering your bearings do two familiar voices drift in the emptiness of the corridor.

“—a shame I won’t have the extra help, but it cannot be avoided.”

“ _Hee hee_ , of course! But I’ll make good use of them back at the Potionarium, hahaha!”

“I would expect no less of you.”

Groggily sitting up and clutching your aching head, you turn and see the imposing figures of the Alchemeister and Plague Knight strutting toward you. Rubbing the sore spot, you remain sitting as they stop just before you.

The small knight takes the opportunity to poke you with his scepter. “Rise and shine, minion! There’s been a slight change in plans, heh.” He then giggles before cutting himself off abruptly, continuing, “We’re returning to the lab, so hop – _hee hee_ – to it!”

Still in the process of waking up, you don’t make a move, instead opting to continuing sitting like a lump on the floor. 

Obviously displeased, Plague Knight prods you harder with his cane. “Up, up! We’ve no time to waste, and I’d prefer not to slog your body back myself. It would be quite the _drag_ , _hee hee hee_ …!” 

You can’t even muster a smile at his lame pun. Instead, you stagger to your feet, ignoring the dizzy spell and spinning vision the action elicits. From the corner of your sight you see the Alchemeister reach into his own dangling sleeve to retrieve a health tonic. He hands it to you and you flip your mask enough to guzzle the potion down. Giving a choked “thanks,” you return the empty flask to the old man before readjusting your mask. 

Plague Knight doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance. “Did you even put up a fight? You can hardly stand straight!”

“S-sorry,” you stutter. “Just…head hurts; got hit pretty hard, I guess.” 

Not really, but considering you were practically assaulted by Specter Knight before in the same place…you wouldn’t doubt it’d be hurting for the next few days. Not that you had the intention to tattle on the ghastly knight and his intent to beat the shit out of you; it probably wouldn’t end well.

You also had the nagging feeling you’d be seeing more of the crimson-clad knight but ignored it; now’s not the time.

“Hopefully the damage isn’t enough to deter your ability to read the old script,” the Alchemeister inputs. And even if you can’t directly see the smile beneath the beard, the wry wrinkles around his eyes show it perfectly well. “It seems you are going places, little one.”

Ignoring the jab at your height, you perk up questioningly. This had to do with the fact you were returning to the lab – Potionarium…? – and given the old man’s words, it seems you’d been promoted. Probably promoted to helping Plague Knight by reading books written in old script.

As if reading your mind, Plague Knight idly waves a hand. “Since I’ve been told you’re quite adept at reading the stuff, you’ll be aiding me with ancient alchemy written in that blasted alphabet.”

A quick fit of snickers overtakes the small knight before he cackles out, “A – _hee hee_ – shame most of the most prominent recipes have been lost in translation; but no longer! Ohhh, so many experiments to conduct, so little time, _hee hee hee_ …!”

Tendrils of excitement danced through your spine at the prospect of uncovering the unknown. To discover the previously extinct, to play a direct role in unearthing the secrets of science—no, _alchemy_ …

You’re slightly abhorred your boss’s random fits of delirium no longer fazed you and even more aghast it seemed to have rubbed off on you.

Just as Plague Knight’s laughs pitter out, you dip down and retrieve your burst potion from the floor; must’ve dropped it after that cerulean knight cleaned your clock. 

“Now that we’re on the same page—” The small knight claps his hands together, “—let us be leaving, minion!”

Vaguely, it crosses your mind he doesn’t know your name but you realize it doesn’t really matter since you don’t know it either. Even if you were just another masked face in the crowd, you’ve been given the opportunity to stand out, to have purpose.

Everything is fine the way it is.

Not too much later you find yourself breezing across the same dirt path which took to the Explodatorium, but instead its massive silhouette fades into the distance. It’s still an unexpected journey, though; it was still the dead of night, countless stars twinkling overhead relentlessly with no light pollution to kill their brightness.

As it turns out, bursting alongside Plague Knight proved to be far easier than stomping around with Percy and his entourage on foot. Well, sort of. You were still a bit unsteady on your landings but the health tonic was working wonders regardless. 

But it’s still difficult keeping up with the rapid bursts of the errant knight. It’s…challenging, but beyond that it’s rather calming, strangely enough. While monotonous it still has a certain excitement to it; placating if anything.

While slightly difficult to navigate in the dead of night, you’ve grown accustomed to following the sporadic jumping of Plague Knight’s shadowy visage. You just hope your clumsiness doesn’t rear its ugly head and make you break your ankle or something ridiculous like that.

More time passes in the relative silence of your travels. So far, your only company are the incessant chirps of insects and the explosions of Plague Knight’s bursts.

Then the small knight lands and stills. You follow shortly and look at the horizon only to see the warm hues of a campfire. 

Plague Knight beckons you silently. The two of you creep up on the makeshift camp and you immediately recognize the large horns peeking out behind a fallen log. The shovel rests besides him.

Oh. So this explains why you felt you were going the wrong way.

At his behest you remain out of sight, hidden in the nearby tree’s shadows as you watch Plague Knight approach the slumbering man. You listen as he mutters almost angrily under his breath as he stands immediately before the cerulean knight but are unable to catch anything clearly.

This…was definitely not expected. Then again, you didn’t know what to expect when it came to Plague Knight and his insistence for anything which could prove useful; hell, you yourself fell into that category…according to Specter Knight.

You shake the intrusive thoughts aside and keep watching. 

Then Plague Knight replaces his own burst potion to his belt and holds out his hand. A few flickers of his fingers later a swirling mass of shimmering blue and gold seep from the prone form of the knight, who doesn’t so much as budge as his essence is sapped away.

Plague Knight flourishes the glimmering mass of cerulean and gold, now coalesced into an orb. Quietly but still clearly joyous, he mocks, “ _Heh heh heh_ , sleeping like a blue baby! Not like I’d let the opportunity to collect slip through my fingers, _hee hee_ …!”

With a snap of his fingers Plague Knight conjures a rounded flask in a flare of green flames. Somehow he guides the essence into the glass and seals it with a rubber stopper. He takes a moment to admire the swirling mass before putting the flask in the pouch hanging on his belt.

Oddly enough, Plague Knight pauses to look down at the golden rod also resting beside the sleeping man. It almost looks like he wants to nudge it but holds himself back at the last moment, barely toeing the thing. With a barely restrained disgust he shakes his head and mutters, “Ugh, a _relic_.”

Wait. That was probably the thing which set you on fire, wasn’t it? You also frown in distaste.

He then turns and begins scurrying away on foot. After a second he rapidly turns to your position and hastily signals you to follow. 

You comply but not before curiously peeking over at the still-sleeping knight, the steady rise and fall of his chest plate indicative the man is still alive. You couldn’t brush away the worry considering how nice he was to you earlier. Sure, he might’ve bashed your head in but he offered you the opportunity to walk away unscathed. Truly nice people like him are few and far between everyone else. 

Plus you knew from your readings that to completely steal a person’s essence was to kill them. Can’t have any lingering potential if you’re dead and vice-versa.

Speaking of which; _damn_. You didn’t get the chance to grab your books from the Explodatorium.

You also try to cast away the lingering disbelief that, when presented with the perfect opportunity, Plague Knight willingly chose not to take the kill. Guess he wasn’t as crazy as he seems. Maybe. Hopefully.

Yet the silence between you and Plague Knight is strangely amicable as you trot along the path. After a bit of hesitation you place your stagnant burst potion back into your pocket, figuring you weren’t going to be using it anymore. 

Somehow aware of your thoughts, Plague Knight pipes up, “Essences are rather volatile and I would rather not risk destroying such a – _hee_ – precious resource. Bursts are also quite – heh heh – reactive; just a travesty waiting to happen, hahaha…!”

You don’t say anything but nod to show you’re listening. After all, it’s pretty obvious he’s lying; he managed to conjure both himself and your unconscious body after your…scuffle with Specter Knight. And that was with two essences in tow. Somehow you doubt bursting would have a worse effect than channeling magic for conjuration.

But puzzling out Plague Knight’s true motives is akin to pulling teeth; you just don’t really do it unless absolutely necessary. Given he’s currently the only reason you have a place in this world, you shouldn’t be questioning him too much or letting him know how deep your inquisitiveness is, even if you’re a scientist first and foremost.

He has his motives just as you have yours. 

If anything, you’ll both get what you want if you remain as you are.

“Anyways,” Plague Knight begins slowly, “Being able to fluently read the old script is quite the feat.” You already don’t like where this is going. “Were you ever going to tell, I wonder…?”

Even through your tired haze you recognize the threatening tone. 

Stiffly, you reply, “Didn’t realize it was so important.” Immediately you realize how nonchalant your words are and quickly amend them, truthfully stating, “I just thought I was illiterate this entire time.”

The atmosphere changes back to jovial when Plague Knight’s silhouette stumbles over itself. 

After successfully catching himself and remaining upright, his pointed mask turns to you. Incredulous, he squeaks, “Y-you, aha, mean to say you can’t r—you can only read the old script?”

Despite the fact you were conversing with a very scary, very unhinged alchemist, you were comfortable enough for a heated flush to begin smoldering in your cheeks. God, how embarrassing if not degrading to admit that…

Pressing the side of your mask into your hand, you begrudgingly murmur, “Just...yeah.”

From the corner of your eye you see Plague Knight’s shoulders beginning to shake in an oncoming fit of laughter. In a poor attempt to defend yourself, you say, “Look, I don’t really remember anything, okay?”

A lie. You remember enough, but it doesn’t matter in the current scheme of things.

Still, your words only force the relentless screeching laughter from him. You just silently fume beside him as he continues to giggle and snort at your expense. Eventually they die out, once again leaving the two of you walking side-by-side in the dark.

Then a sudden thought strikes you. If that was the same knight who duked it out with you, and if Plague Knight was there too, why did he steal the essence now…?

A stunted cough informs you that you accidentally said your thoughts out loud. 

“Th-that’s none of your concern, minion!” Plague Knight’s reedy voice warbles slightly. “That cursed Shovel Knight used dirty tactics to best me, the cheat…! And nothing more!” He turns and points a single finger at you. 

You hold up both your hands defensively. “Oh-okay.”

Satisfied, the robed knight turns on his heel and continues forward with you following like a second shadow. You keep the fact you don’t necessarily believe him to yourself.

Then; “W-wait, is that guy’s name really ‘Shovel Knight’?” Sure, he wields a shovel better than it has any business being, but still…

Then you cast a quick glance at Plague Knight’s, well, plague doctor-like mask and robes. Your thoughts then drift to Specter Knight’s whole ghastly motif with the grim reaper-looking robes and scythe, and suddenly you feel the urge to burst out into insane laughter. 

“His title certainly is, the pesky interloper,” Plague Knight grumbles. “What kind of fool uses a measly spade as their weapon of choice when there’s explosions! _Hee hee hee_ …!” Ah, yes, there’s the alchemist you know.

“S-Shovel Knight…” You repeat slowly, savoring the comedic value. Then you burst out into a fit of giggles rivaling Plague Knight’s own, though for different reasons. 

The only company to your roaring laughter are the stars twinkling overhead and the ever-ominous but ever-present visage of the Tower of Fate. They continue watching like silent sentinels as you and Plague Knight continue walking back to the Potionarium or lab or whatever.

Although the trip dips into comfortable silence, with a few quips on Plague Knight’s part and you trying and failing to defend yourself, you feel at home. For the most part.

This world isn’t your real home but it’s offered you purpose beyond being another easily-replaced cog.

Yes, everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dub this chapter 'Abuse of semicolons.'
> 
> Now we know what essences are, huzzah! And, consequently, the plot's moving along! About time, right?
> 
> And before I forget: the whole idea for old script and new script is based off the Hall of Champions; in-game, I think there's this one room where it lists Shovel Knight's alphabet compared to English...? Like for in-game and meta translation purposes, I guess? Either way, it's now a plot point in this!


	6. The Traitor

“—then carefully add the _spirits of hartshorn_ to the mixture of _acidum salis_ and heaven’s salt.”

Taking you eyes away from the withered page, you watch as Mona passes the flask containing a faintly yellow solution over to Plague Knight. With a single nod he uncorks the stopper and slowly pours it into the larger beaker resting on the workbench while continuously whirling the potions.

Once the solution settles with a small amount of white precipitate at the bottom, Plague Knight removes a vial containing a familiar green powder. 

“ _Hee hee_ …!” He laughs. “Imagine how potent the explosion will be if we add some of _this_ —!”

“Don’t.” You don’t even look up and continue reading the recipe for the extremely explosive powder. In the ensuing silence and the feeling being stared at, you say, “Probably not a good idea considering _fulminating silver_ is already super reactive. Coupled with the fact this stuff is also super reactive…” You wave a hand idly, hoping to get your point across.

Already used to the fact you’re pretty comfortable with alchemy and have been directly helping both him and Mona for several days, Plague Knight just huffs irritably. You only allow yourself to be pleased when you hear the vial being placed aside.

Satisfied, you glance up. Another of his abrupt nods signals for you to read the next step.

“A solid white precipitate will form at the bottom of the flask; this is white powder. To obtain the powder in its pure form, distil the solution or use a basic transformation transmutation to force the production of pure precipitate.”

You shoot a quick look to Plague Knight and see him place a single finger beneath his mask in thought. He then turns to Mona and requests, “Mona, if you would…?”

“On it.” And with that comment she takes a piece of chalk and draws a fairly simple circle with a few rings and symbols. You knew she was probably bypassing a lot of small steps in one fell swoop, but it’s still lacking compared to Styx’s transmutations. Regardless, it will most likely be interesting to watch. Carefully, she places the beaker in the center of her etching.

She then splays her fingers askew and makes a few quick movements. In a bright flash of light, the beaker – previously filled mostly with liquid – contained a handful or so of pure white powder. 

“Ah yes,” Plague Knight clasps his hands together happily. “The perks of being a magician, _hee hee hee_ …!”

Mona rolls her eyes and wrinkles her nose distastefully. “Yeah, yeah, but you and I know where the fun stuff’s at.”

“ _BOOOOM_! Hahaha, _hee hee_ …!” Plague Knight releases a fit of gleeful cackles. “What use is science if you can’t make explosions? Thankfully we have alchemy, heh.”

You ignore their chat and continue reading the steps and stumble upon the various warnings. Quickly you look back up and stare at the innocuous white powder sitting almost innocently in the beaker. Dipping down to rapidly read through all the nuances – why the hell were the warnings at the end? – you perk up when you hear glass clink.

You can’t stop the muffled gasp as you see Plague Knight once again pull out the vial containing the green powder. 

“Don’t—!” You nearly yell as he begins to uncork the fulminating silver.

He quickly looks over at you and thankfully stops what he’s doing. Snapping the alchemy book shut against your side, you point at the green powder and repeat, “Don’t add anything else, especially _fulminating silver_! No concussive powder or it’ll react.”

“You wouldn’t let me add it before!” He childishly complains. “If not now then when?”

Beneath your mask a frustrated scowl makes its way to your face. Furrowing your unseen brow, you stoically reply, “White powder is especially reactive with potential fuels, like other powder bases for explosives.”

Although comfortable to the point of having your own opinion compared to these two highly knowledgeable alchemists, you don’t make any snide comments. You feel if you question Plague Knight’s sanity and disregard of basic caution associated with chemistry, even the fact you’re able to read old script won’t be enough to keep in his good graces. 

“Hmm. Really?” You glare at the small robed knight as he once again places a finger beneath his mask. “Any other warnings in the recipe?”

Huffing irritably, you reopen the rather bulky text and try to remember the page for white powder, but all the numbers are Roman and you’re not too good with those off the top of your head. The turning of heavy parchment nearly fills the silence, save for a subtle pop and series of stifled giggles.

You realize your mistake when you hear Mona smack a gloved hand to her forehead.

No sooner than redirecting your attention to Plague Knight and the workbench do you see him pour a sizable amount of _fulminating silver_ into the white powder. 

The reaction – haha – is immediate. 

Sure enough, on contact the white powder created a self-sustained explosion which not only caused a rather impressive billow of fire, but also completely eradicated the beaker containing it in a shower of glass. Amongst the chaos of you throwing yourself to the floor and covering your head with the book you hear mad cackling and a rueful sigh. 

After the sound of flying glass and deafening blasts stops, you hesitantly pull yourself to your feet. Heart rate spiked and pounding in your head, you shoot an accusatory glare at the still-laughing knight. 

Catching your stare, his mask turns toward you and you can practically feel the smirk underneath. “Um, oops…?”

Heaving a large sigh, partially to calm yourself and partially to collect your thoughts, you grit out, “There are procedures for a _reason_.” 

“ _Bah_!” Plague Knight exclaims, dusting off his robes. “One can’t learn if they aren’t willing to work outside the given parameters, minion.”

You glance at the burnt husk of a thing resting atop the workbench. Then you trail your eyes over the same auditorium Plague Knight gave his lessons, pursing your lips at all the glass shards littering the floor. “Yes,” you admit, “But boundaries should be set first so _this_ —” You motion to your surroundings, “—doesn’t happen.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Plague Knight says thoughtfully, but it’s clear he’s just trying to sate your anger.

He once again claps his hands and looks over to where Mona is currently attempting to clean the burnt husk of glass and goop adhered to the workbench. She meets his inquiring look and quips, “Y’know, they raise a valid point.”

Plague Knight simply grumbles under his breath before idly waving his hand. “Well, I guess this time it was a failure; but of no concern! Still so, so very many things to test…yes, yes…” His reedy voice trails off before releasing a small bout of titters.

“But all that will have to wait,” he continues. “In the meantime, I have to go – _hee hee_ – loot the looter!”

With that he once again pilfers his satchel for a bright green potion and hurls the bottle at his feet. Similar to the very first time you met the errant knight, green flames lick up his body and once they extinguish themselves a moment later, he’s nowhere to be found. You wish you could willingly conjure yourself anywhere like that.

Mona huffs across the table. “What a pain.” 

But the tiny smile pulling at her lips hints at the endearment behind the remark. You make no comment; not your business nor will it ever be.

Silently, you place the book onto one of the front row desks and grab a broom to start helping the woman. In a rather comfortable silence the two of you begin cleaning up the mess, with you sweeping up the glass and Mona reorganizing all the supplies into their rightful shelves. 

For working under both Plague Knight and Mona for the past week or so, it’s already become tradition for you to clean up the resultant messes of the daily experiment. More often than not, there was an ‘accident’ much like today’s where the tiny alchemist decided to disregard the general procedures and cause more harm than good.

Still you and Mona get along well enough, the resultant quiet of cleanup amiable and relaxing.

You recall how she only grew comfortable with you a couple days ago. Another mishap had occurred, then Plague Knight left you and his assistant to clean up the mess while he went off somewhere. She commented on his blatant disregard for basic safety and, still upset, you remarked he didn’t even properly cover his hands when dealing with corrosive substances. 

“’Fearlessness bordering on recklessness,’” you had repeated with a scoff. “Like it wasn’t obvious since he doesn’t even wear gloves. Isn’t covering your skin a basic lab safety rule or is that just me?” And then you had gestured wildly to your own minion robes which failed to show a single inch of skin.

This pulled a harsh snort from the woman, and since then you’ve gotten along fairly well.

Maybe it also had to do with the fact you had the gall to directly call him an idiot in the heat of your fury, which Mona apparently thought was neat enough to outright laugh at. Sure, her laugh _was_ stunted at best, but the woman looked like she never really smiled so to you it was quite the accomplishment.

“Alright.” Mona breaks the silence and wipes her brow. She then glances at you and your small pile of glass, walks over and draws another circle around it. In a bright flash all the shards are gone, replaced by the same beaker which exploded. 

You thank her but she just waves a hand. “No problem. And thanks for helping clean up; makes things easier.” Replacing the new beaker to a shelf, she turns around. “You can go now. It’s about lunchtime anyway.”

After a short goodbye you adhere to her words and seek out the dining commons. Sure enough, the place is packed with most of the on-station minions. You slowly move through the hustle and bustle, eventually grabbing a turkey sandwich before heading back to the dorms.

You knock on the door and a familiar voice chirps, “Come in!”

Without further ado you enter and sit beside the familiar figure of Styx on the bed. You remove your mask and give both of them a weary smile to which the black-haired boy returns. 

“So, any laboratory mishaps today?” Styx asks, but the smirk pulling at his lips tell you he already knows.

“Ugh.” You groan and stuff a corner of your sandwich into your mouth. Swallowing, you mutter, “I almost had a heart attack is what; boss almost blew up the auditorium.”

“Huh. So was that why there was a really loud explosion?” Draak asks from his desk. He unclasps the bottom of his mask to take a quick swig of his water but the phenomenon has long since lost its mystique and you’re not one to pry anyway.

“Probably,” you reply. Taking another undignified bite, you ignore the bubbling laughter from your friends and quietly stew. Or, at least pretend to; it’s far too difficult to remain angry with friends like Draak and Styx around.

That and you were finally able to achieve something worthwhile.

The rest of lunch passes in relative calmness interspersed with your bouts of frustration working under Plague Knight; you don’t know how Mona deals with him. Besides the constant mishaps, you can’t deny the feeling of participating in fresh experiments – and playing an integral role at that – is more rewarding to your boundless curiosity then you thought possible. The situation was enthralling as it was dangerous.

Just as you’re about to return to your own room for a nap, Draak perks up. “Oh, wait! I think the mail minion was looking for you…” You tilt your head and furrow your brow, confused. He picks up on this and continues, “He’s in the central room; wears blue robes and has a fancy hat?”

Still your bemused expression betrays the fact you don’t know who he’s talking about. Then again you weren’t really accustomed to hanging around the central quarters. You mostly just hung around the bursting arena along with your friends or in the small reading room when alone.

“Immediately to your left when you enter,” Styx states. Okay, that clears things up slightly.

“Yup! Can’t miss him; you should go see what he wants!” Draak likewise inputs.

Refitting your mask to your face, you nod once and say a short goodbye before leaving Draak’s room. Heading for the central room where the Magicist and Percy usually resided, you don’t have to look too hard for the mail minion when someone of Draak’s description calls out to you.

He hurridly approaches, gripping the navy messenger bag to his body; it looks pretty full. Stopping in front of you, he huffs a breath before standing upright. You almost want to question how he fits the magenta polo over his robes but bite your tongue; don’t be unnecessarily rude. 

“Am I glad I found you!” He says jovially, reaching into the bag hanging at his waist. “You are the newest recruit, right?” You pause before nodding once; probably goes unsaid since you don’t actually know for sure.

“Works well enough for me! The Alchemeister just said to look for the shortest minion…” The mail minion trails off.

Luckily your mask hid the absolute glare you had pinned on the guy; what the hell was it with everyone calling you out for your stunted height? You weren’t even that short; maybe a little on the small side but nowhere near how much of a twerp Shovel Knight is!

Still biting your tongue to prevent any snide remarks, you gracefully accept the parchment-wrapped package from him. The heft is familiar but you’ll find out soon enough.

With a short thanks and an internal curse to the Alchemeister, you turn on your heel and head to your room. Once there, you unwrap the twine with a vengeance and two large books greet your eyes. Sure enough, the faded embossed titles of _Theory and History of Ancient Alchemy_ and _Pridemoor: A General History_ reignite the familiarity. The Alchemeister knew you were reading these books in your off time…

Oddly thankful but still kinda pissed, you pick up the Pridemoor book. It looks like your nap will have to wait.

**—**

Familiarizing yourself with the world turned out to be not only practical, but also strangely interesting.

Specifically, you now knew a bit about the times before the current kingdom of Pridemoor was put into place. For a book discussing the history of its reign over the valley, it sure had a lot to say regarding the prior empire; not that you were complaining, since it was actually pretty neat.

The previous but strangely unnamed kingdom had been ruling the territory of the valley for as long as anyone could remember, only to fall in a bloody revolution. While there were various discussions from different historians regarding why the supposedly blissful kingdom met its untimely doom, one thing was widely agreed upon: there was a curse placed onto the royalty.

You had scoffed at the notion, but then again magic exists so why not.

Something or other about the monarchy’s form of government officials being cursed by a bad omen of the stars; it’s pretty nonsensical, to be honest. Still something was clearly corrupt within the royal palace to have ignited such an outrage in the otherwise prosperous kingdom. What, exactly, was still unknown.

The people revolted, organizing a massive rebellion which would eventually upheave the kingdom into nothingness, for all intents in the historian’s circle. Most of the ruling royalty were killed in the ensuing chaos, including the throne’s heir who was supposedly just a puppet in all this.

After most of the royalty were killed off the curse manifested itself. Although a phenomenon which can’t be directly traced, it destroyed a large fraction of the populace via poor agricultural yields which lead to widescale starvation. If the lack of food didn’t kill them, the ensuing pestilence certainly continued to rampage through the valley, taking anyone it could.

After all was said and done, the valley was soon back to its normal peaceful routine. The new kingdom of Pridemoor established itself and guided the ravaged lands and people back to health. It’s been like a fairy tale ever since.

And then the Enchantress had to show up and ruin everything.

…or that’s what you assumed, given you didn’t have it in you to continue reading about how Pridemoor enacting this treaty or signed this law into action or whatever. Not exactly your cup of tea. But bloodshed was always interesting.

Just as you finished organizing your measly belongings in your desk, a small series of knocks interrupts your thoughts.

Wrinkling your nose in slight distaste – you hoped you could at least take a small nap – you ask, “Who is it?” Yeah, you weren’t the most social person, nor the most tactful. Couldn’t even hide the irritation in your voice.

“It’s me!” Oh, now you feel a bit bad for basically telling off Draak.

“One second.” You align your two books on top of your desk and approach the door. Sure enough, the towering figure of your friend stands before you and, after gesturing for him to enter, he hastily waves his hands.

“Oh no, I just came to tell you Mona wants to see you!” He chirps.

You stare up at him and process his words. Then, “Okay. Um, right now…?”

His mask frantically bobs up and down. “Yeah!” Draak says; was there ever a time when he wasn’t happy? Not that you want to find out; he was too nice and you couldn’t even imagine his genuine anger toward anyone. For some reason, you think he’d just be slightly more shy than normal when meeting new people.

You thank him and begin heading off toward the boiler room.

It wasn’t that strange, considering Draak was often summoned by both Mona and Plague Knight. Apparently, aside from being the second newest recruit besides you, he had a special talent for concocting bombs with poisonous properties. When you asked about it he bashfully told you it was a trade secret. 

When you asked Styx about it – maybe Draak could make your burst potion toxic too – he just shook his head. Still his wry smirk told you he knew more than he let on, but again you didn’t want to pry too much. 

Sure enough, the tall green-skinned woman is organizing her personal shelf when you arrive. 

Turning to see who entered, she perks up and says, “You’re here already? That’s good, I guess.” 

Confused and a bit miffed she also recognizes you from your height, you just stare at her and wait for her explanation. You weren’t really summoned often, aside from helping her and Plague Knight decipher old script. 

“So,” Mona begins nonchalantly, “Since Plague Knight’s gone and I’m stuck here as head of the Potionarium, I’ve sent out a few minions for collection.” 

You nod once to show you’re listening. Shifting on your feet, you’re pretty sure you know where this going.

“Anyways, I’ve been meaning to grab some ectoplasm from the Lich Yard.” At this she stares at you with an unreadable look. You feel like you did when Plague Knight first recruited you; like a sample beneath a microscope.

Okay, so maybe you didn’t know where this was going exactly. Hesitantly, you nod once again. 

Taking it as her signal to continue, Mona states, “I was wondering if you’d be willing to brave the place again.”

Although she was rather blunt and seemed disinterested the majority of the time, you find it strangely sweet of her to consider your feelings regarding the matter. Then again, she was one of the first people to see your tattered form after your struggle with the keeper of the Lich Yard. Even more is no one knew of your other tussle just before you arrived at the Explodatorium.

Sure the thought of running into Specter Knight made you pause to think long and hard, but…You really, _really_ didn’t want to risk losing your worth because you were too chicken to scout a familiar territory. You wanted to prove yourself; to both your superiors and even to the scythe-wielding man himself.

Plus it’d be nice to be out and about again; you’ve been holed up in the lab ever since you came back.

Oh, wait a minute…

“Uhhh.” You raise a single finger but forget your thoughts immediately. Mona raises a single brow and opens her mouth to say something, but you hastily cut her off. “I-I-yes, I’ll go, I just…”

You trail off. Shrugging helplessly, you admit, “I don’t, uh, know how to collect…I don’t know what ectoplasm is…”

At this Mona outright smirks for a brief moment before it vanishes into thin air. With her trademark bored expression, she waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter; I’ll tell you everything you need to know. But you’ll really go?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “It’s fine; even if it’s not, well, I had a good run.”

You manage to pry a short snort from the woman who looks at you appraisingly. “Alright, just try to make it back in one piece. It was hard enough patching you up last time.”

She thankfully can’t see the slight grimace underneath your mask. A twinge of unease firmly roots itself in your gut, but you release a small laugh to hide your insecurity. It’ll be fine; it was last time when you encountered Specter Knight.

Reassuring yourself you probably won’t be smeared across the stony paths of the Lich Yard by one particularly adamant reaper, you grin. “Okay; tell me what I need to do.”

Mona returns your hidden grin with a smirk of her own. “Alright then.”

**—**

It takes about an hour for you to once again reacquaint yourself with the perpetual darkness of the Lich Yard.

While it was still midday by the time you departed from the lab, the sun refused to shine in the dead place. If you remembered, Styx did mention there was a curse or something which prevented any and all daylight. A bit disheartening, considering you were shivering in both the chill and anticipation.

If everything bodes well, then it shouldn’t be too long acquiring the necessary ectoplasm.

Clamping down on your burst potion, you press the valve’s button and soar across another endless abyss. You flap your sleeves for additional momentum, land, and repeat the process once your potion has reset its explosive properties. Rinse and repeat, but still exhilarating nonetheless.

You come to complete stop once you see the familiar vestige of a floating blue apparition. The invisishade fails to notice your frankly obvious appearance – bright green and magenta robes in a primarily dull and drab place – and you reach into your pocket. 

You remove a small blue sphere which fits nicely in the palm of your hand, kind of like your burst potion. Its opaque surface shines with cleanliness and will certainly shine even more if what Mona told you was true. Not that you were doubting her expertise; she was the one who traditionally braved the Lich Yard for ectoplasm. You had no idea what use the stuff was, but it’s undeniably rare.

Seeing how the substance was obtained, you weren’t surprised. Since invisishades were just ghosts with a fancy name, they were already dead and technically didn’t have any remaining essence. But the fact that ectoplasm functioned sort of similarly to an essence, what with being the lingering potential of a person, it was heavily desired. Then again, its primary use was as a binding agent in many explosives, the main staple of Mona’s research.

A couple empty flasks rest in your robe’s pocket, reminding you to collect enough of the supernatural glue.

You try and fail to suppress a shiver; if only Mona hadn’t told you what you were to be doing was basically equivalent to grave robbing. Sure, they might already be dead and sure, they’ve been reanimated because of a curse or whatever, but you were still killing them all over again to get some ectoplasm. Who would’ve known the stuff was literally the solidified remnants of an invisishade? 

Nearly groaning, you shake your burst potion in one hand and hold onto the fancy orb with the other. You had to make sure the trajectory was just right, or else you’d be scraping the substance from the ground than have it land inside your flasks.

Deciding to screw the prep work – Plague Knight would be proud, heh – you burst forward.

The blue ghost turns only to see your leap toward it. Its sleeved…hands? Its sleeves billow constantly as it slowly approaches you. You almost smirk beneath your mask; it must think you can’t kill it because it’s already dead.

But this is just strictly business, so you school your expression and toss the orb at it once close enough. As soon as the ball makes contact with the ghost, it stalls midair only to brilliantly illuminate the immediate surroundings. 

You swiftly remove one of the empty flasks and stand beneath the shivering form of the invisishade. You uncap the container just in time as the ghost flickers before erupting into a small shower of blue slime. Luckily, nearly every drop of the goop lands in the flask and you cap it once finished. 

Holding it closer to your face, you notice the substance bears a stark resemblance to those green slime monsters; blorbs, maybe? Aside from a couple beady eyes and being a different color, ectoplasm looked just like those wriggling bastards who helped bully you off a cliff.

Huffing in satisfaction, you pocket the now full bottle and dip down to retrieve the fallen orb. 

One down, one to go.

It doesn’t take too long to find another hapless invisishade floating aimlessly over a grave. You repeat the same process of ambush and destruction, watching in fascination as its form quivers before glitching in and out of existence. With a final echoed cry, it dissipates into a floating puddle of blue slime. You wait patiently for the stuff to fall into your empty flask. 

From the corner of your eye, you watch the orb begin its fall after pausing to completely eradicate the ghost. Wiping away the excess ectoplasm which dribbled down the glass, you hear the ball hit the ground with a subdued thud before rolling away.

You pause when the rolling sounds abruptly stop. 

Instead, the clamor of clinking armor greets your ears like the bell tolling your funeral. A new bout of shivers race up your spine while the icy dread in your gut rears its ugly head and clutches your heart like a vice. Slowly, you turn around.

Sure enough Specter Knight stands there in all his crimson-robed, reaper-looking glory, foot resting comfortably atop the orb you probably need to return to Mona. He stares down at you and you don’t miss how his spindly fingers clutch his scythe’s handle tighter.

A tense silence reigns as neither of you make a move.

Suddenly you recall the emotional turmoil he left you in the last time you met, how he forced you to admit your own shortcomings, to—

You clench your gloved hands tight, winding your fingers securely around the flask. Your dread disappears in the wave of rage, bitter and hot, erupting from your core. You’d like to believe yourself relatively calm if not outright apathetic, but to show any sort of weakness is unacceptable. Yet he pushed you to that state, made you admit to your own brokenness.

A hidden snarl makes its way to your face. No one was supposed to know; it was to remain locked away from all others prying eyes. Your faults are yours and yours _alone_. 

The fact you already told three separate people of your inadequacies echoes faintly in the recesses of your mind but you ignore it. That was then when you were but an idiot with nothing to lose, and this is now. 

Still eerily quiet, you force yourself to move your body, to have some form of outlet for the all-encompassing anger you feel. With mechanical limbs not unlike the whirring, monotonous machines in that white place, you cap the bottle and pocket it in your robes. You question why you’re still standing much less still alive at this point, but that thought too is shoved away. 

You have too much to lose. And according to his previous philosophy, now you have a reason to fear dying.

Adrenaline courses through your vessels like boiling vitriol. Body tense and fingers gripping the valve of your burst potion’s bottle, you turn to meet the knight. 

The two of you stare in utter silence, unseen winds picking up both your heavy robes and his crimson mantle.

Breaking the silence is your robotic voice. It takes a moment for you to realize it truly is you speaking, but the deadened tone and equally droning words prove them to be your thoughts. 

“I’ll leave so long as you return that.” You point at the orb caught beneath the knight’s foot and the stony ground.

Still the reaper says nothing. 

Tense silence reigns for the better part of a minute.

Specter Knight’s gravelly voice then shatters the silence. “You dare give me an ultimatum in my own territory?”

There’s an edge to his voice not unlike the wicked scythe he grasps against his side. The threat is immediate and the danger is nearly palpable; you have to tread more carefully. Something tells you if you continue like this you won’t live to regret your poor decision.

You weigh each word heavily on your tongue before voicing them aloud. “No. I will leave regardless, but someone will return seeking that until it is rightfully returned.” Of this you were unsure, but you believed it probable enough and thus your words rang true. “I would be saving you the trouble if I take it now.”

Again a thick silence permeates the clearing. Your audience of decrepit tombstones serves to remind you of the likely outcome of this.

Specter Knight’s armor clinks as he leans further onto the orb. You find it mildly surprising the thing doesn’t just break underneath his weight. You sort of hope it does, because then it would be enough of a reason to immediately try escaping back to the lab. Even if the chance wasn’t in your favor, you refused to go down without another confrontation.

Phantom pains make themselves known in your chest but you ignore them in favor of gripping your burst potion tighter.

“When I said your devotion to that alchemist will be your undoing,” Specter Knight begins slowly, “I never suspected he would lead you back to me so soon.”

You grit your teeth at the unspoken comment belittling both your boss and yourself.

“Plague Knight did not send me here,” you state, struggling to keep the anger from your voice but failing.

“Interesting,” Specter Knight quips mirthlessly. “So you returned by your own foolish desire, then? Too beguiled by that pest to see past the consequences of being his tool? But I suppose it’s appropriate; a leech befits a leech.”

Stupid, stupid; how irrevocably idiotic of you to reveal your weakness to him…! And he had the gall to use it against you so willingly; you wish he had killed you before you achieved prominence, became worth something.

Yes, it was incredibly foolish of you to crave purpose so desperately you would willingly allow yourself to be nothing more than a pretty accessory when all was said and done. But the emptiness continually gnawing away at your insides pushed you to fill that void. You would not become another expendable cog, not now, not again.

Carefully, as robotic as you can make your voice, you say, “If we are both happy with the agreement then nothing is wrong.”

“How pathetic to seek validation when there is none to be found.” Specter Knight lets loose a sharp hiss. “That fool cannot see past his own selfishness.”

His words ring true, but you don’t really care. Even if Plague Knight has never thanked you for your continued aid or desperate loyalty, he has seen your use and prioritized it for his gain. This was fine; still something seemed off about Specter Knight’s remark. 

What did he know of your elusive boss?

Through the silent terror gripping your instincts – run run RUN – and the searing heat of your rage, you almost smile. It was almost funny how in his attempt to tarnish your pride he was revealing his own inadequacies. Now here was an opportunity to manipulate the situation in your favor.

It was clearly obvious he had meant something else entirely different from before, when he told you Plague Knight sought only your essence. And even prior to that, the reaper had unknowingly revealed his knowledge that the alchemist was a traitor. Yet, at the time, Plague Knight hadn’t arrived to steal his essence; no, it was you who had fought him instead.

Either Specter Knight was as devoted to the Order of No Quarter and, by extension, the Enchantress as you were to Plague Knight, or…or something else entirely. 

You curse your innate curiosity, but curiosity and creativity are what make a good scientist. A small price to pay so as to reap – ha ha – the benefits of your situation.

Playing the part of a fool, you tilt your head questioningly. “What has he done…?”

Specter Knight growls harshly as the unseen winds pick up his ragged cloak, whipping it around chaotically. He raises a claw before clenching it tightly. You feel the poorly restrained wrath of his glare even if you cannot see his eyes through his visor. If you looked closely, his body was wracked with the tiniest of trembles.

Clearly, the reaper was upset. You had to be careful; tread on thin ice.

A clap of thunder makes you jump and rapidly blink to ease the blinding flash. 

The sound of the rolling orb is quickly overshadowed by the fact Specter Knight reappears right in front of you. Looming so close you can smell the scent of death clinging to him like a second skin, you hold your breath and resist the urge to press the button on your potion’s valve. 

It was probably a good thing you didn’t burst away as a familiar curved blade touches the nape of your neck ever so gently; a warning and threat wrapped in tandem. You swallow thickly. This game of pretty words and circling around each other has overstayed its welcome, so it seems.

Deciding you had no other option, you gamble. “Because Plague Knight is a traitor?”

There. Your cards were on the table and it was up to Specter Knight to decide whether to stay or fold.

His glower seems to pierce through your own mask and into your eyes. Quietly, which is somehow far more terrifying than if he roared in your face, he seethes, “That alchemist threatens to undermine all my work.”

The scythe begins to bite into your thick robes. Specter Knight leans even closer. “But you already knew that, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

Tongue like lead, you manage to quell your stupefied fear long enough to say, “I don’t know what you mean.” The blade curls closer to your neck; playing the fool was a mistake. You should’ve known considering how errant he became during your last encounter when he thought you hadn’t taken him seriously. 

Perhaps you weren’t playing the fool but are the fool.

Still you correct yourself before he can behead you. “’Your work;’ I don’t know what that entails.”

Luckily your words prove both truthful enough to for the blade to be slightly removed from your neck, and aggravating enough for Specter Knight to outwardly curse. You nearly smile but don’t risk it; who know if he can see through your mask as well as your previous façade.

“For a lowly minion,” he begins, voice strained with irritation, “You are privy to things which do not concern you.”

You hold your breath and slowly release it to calm your erratic heart. Your gamble was paying off but still you had to continue this game or else your head would be on the table. At least you know being honest with the reaper proved to be in your favor.

“Yes,” you admit after a short pause. “But it would be easier to not know such things; considering I did not know my place here, my curiosity was all I had to guide me.” Might as well be honest since you already revealed your loss of identity to him. “Think of me as a victim of circumstance.”

Specter Knight pauses almost thoughtfully before echoing your words. “’A victim of circumstance’…”

For a fleeting moment you prepare for the endless void of death, body tensing but eyes wide open, waiting to see your own demise. But the void never comes nor does the burning pain commonly associated with cuts from a blade. 

Instead, you watch the reaper straighten himself so his face does not loom so closely to yours. The winds around him die down until his mantle is not sporadically lashing out in every direction. Then to your utter bafflement he removes his scythe from behind you only to return it to his side in a comparatively lax grip. 

Unsure if he was allowing you to leave, you remain firmly in place and wait. He was still looking at you, after all.

“It seems,” Specter Knight murmurs thoughtfully, “We at least have that in common.”

Words cannot adequately capture the raw, undiluted confusion you feel. But you shove it down to be brought to your attention later; now, you had to make sure there was a later. 

Readjusting your grip on your burst potion – when did your fingers become so lax? – you look imploringly at the still vigilant knight. The baby-blue orb rests innocuously on the stony path a few meters away. 

You weren’t going to let his sudden amiable posture fool you. 

Still you wait in place, mind racing a mile a minute. You feel—no, you know he had revealed something very personal to you in that moment of weakness, of how he carefully compared your situation to his. If he considered himself a victim of circumstance, coupled with the fact Plague Knight’s traitor status threatens to undo all his ‘hard work’…

If he was in charge of keeping tabs on everyone – and why wouldn’t he, given his apparent ability to teleport? – was there unrest due to Plague Knight’s quest for essences? But that wouldn’t explain why his work would be undone; wouldn’t it increase if that were the case? Clearly, there was something you were missing.

Even if you’re not entirely sure of his situation, you’re willing to bet Specter Knight is far more closely related to the Order than every other member.

Specter Knight’s gravelly voice interrupts the silence between you. “Yet the similarities end there. I would never be satisfied by the gilded cage you’ve built around yourself; nothing more than pretty pretenses and lies.”

The emptiness within you pangs hollowly, echoes of nothing precipitating in your chest.

His next words are said without mirth yet share a similar lack of empathy to your own void. 

“But we both know you’re only fooling yourself.”

That…wasn’t right. No; you were happy to have found worth in yourself at the behest of another. You had found a place where you couldn’t be replaced with ease; you had found meaning, a purpose. You had value and this knight dares to question your own happiness…? What does he know about you.

Your hands tighten, one into a fist and the other around the valve of your burst potion. The anger which had boiled away returns with a vengeance, conflicting with the icy dread clawing its way through your stomach. It felt like the ground beneath you, at one time sturdy and unmoving, now swirled like the cacophony of thoughts in your mind.

Voice thick with poorly restrained confusion, anger and dread, you whisper, “What…?”

Still there is no mirth to be found in his reply. “…You truly have fooled yourself.”

His words are almost awestruck, if it weren’t for the innate sense of disbelief underlying them.

Not wanting to hear his own confusion or feel the void inside you begin seeping out of its confinement, you spit, “What do _you_ know about _me_? _Nothing_!”

Blearily, you recall saying these exact words to the same person several days earlier but it makes no difference; the words and their equally harsh tone are out in the open. If they couldn’t change anything back then, what makes you think they’ll change anything now? Just a small, infinitesimally stupid hope hidden behind all the emptiness, your merciless thoughts counter.

“I know enough,” is all Specter Knight says.

Liar. Use your logic; there’s no way he knows you better than yourself. It’s impossible.

Still you grit out, “How.”

“I told you,” Specter Knight explains, “I watched him pry the essence from you. And essences speak volumes of their hosts.” Then he repeats, “I know enough.”

There is no feeling, not a single scrap of emotion buried beneath his words. They reek of indifference, of simple facts like he hadn’t just attempted to shatter the foundation of your carefully crafted world. The void inside you hungers, unsatisfied with what you’ve managed to build.

Your heart pounds inside your head, steady and rhythmic against the storm of confusion. Your jaws begin to ache as you grind your teeth together, mashing them with as much force as you can muster. 

“Tell me.” You request as calmly as you are able. But it’s a half-assed façade at best as the bitter rage shines through with unspoken desperation.

Specter Knight merely sighs. “Why don’t you ask that alchemist you worship? Or do you fear your pretty little cage will crumble if he refuses?”

You rage boils over and ever so vaguely, you hear what sound like glass breaking in the back of your mind. Trigger finger firmly pressed onto the valve’s button, you burst forward and rocket toward the immobile figure of Specter Knight. You reach out with your other hand, clawing at the empty air.

You don’t even try to hide the urgency entering your voice. “ _Tell me_ …!”

An abrupt wind musters your robes as you watch the reaper’s visage fold in on itself, disappearing before you can reach him. Too angry to think about anything but forcing him to reveal what he knows, you don’t right your momentum and crash harshly into the stone pathway. You skid until stopping a few meters away, the blue orb sitting just an arm’s length away. Ironic, really, that you didn’t care about it right now.

Picking yourself off the ground, you turn and see Specter Knight reappear where you had been standing a few moments prior. He not only had the gall to speak of you like he knew you better than you knew yourself, but then to openly taunt your desperate measures? You had fallen for his tricks like a moth to a flame.

It was infuriating. 

“Even if he truly values you as much as you believe,” Specter Knight’s ragged voice chimes, “You’ll never be satisfied; this I promise.”

With that last remark a sudden flash of white obscure your vision. Rapidly blinking away the spot in your eyes, only the empty grave site and its crumbling tombstones greet you, the reaper long gone.

Unable to contain the festering frustration, you once again collapse onto the stony ground. You yell curse after curse, gripping your shoulders as if a lifeline to remain ignorant. You had just lost another opportunity to rekindle your identity; like sand through your fingers it had left and there’s was nothing you could do to remedy the situation.

The fiery sensation crawling through the back of your throat is accompanied by a similar burning in your eyes. But you push the fresh tears away, refusing to let them fall. So you sit in silence, trying to collect and rearrange the pieces of yourself until you can almost forget the ever-present void sitting in your chest.

The lustrous orb sits benignly a few feet away.

**—**

Returning to the Potionarium takes longer than necessary, what with the emotional turmoil Specter Knight left you in.

Slipping by the village guard’s watch unnoticed, you likewise sneak into another of many hidden passages leading to the secret lab. When all is said and done, you make your way through the spacious corridors as quietly as you can; even if the Lich Yard is curtained in perpetual darkness, the stars were out on your trek back.

Knowing Mona was likely asleep, you step into the boiler room regardless. Peeking up at the Dynamo Decanter, you spot yet another essence in addition to all the others. It swirls in brilliant shades of violet and gold, still surprisingly bright in the utter darkness of the room. If a new essence was added, then there was a chance Plague Knight would be at the lab.

…or not. He lived at the Explodatorium, only using the Potionarium for most of his ‘underground’ research.

You admire the ethereal substance for a moment before moving on to Mona’s personal cabinet. Feeling a little bit bad for approaching her personal stash without her knowledge, you rummage through your pockets and procure the two flasks of ectoplasm. Placing them at eye-level – for her, certainly not for you – you then remove the mysterious light orb she lent you to collect the ghostly ingredient.

In its pristine reflection you see you own distorted visage staring back. Luckily the mask hides how terrible you must appear, as the dark circles beneath your eyes never really faded.

Carefully, you place the orb besides the two flasks. Satisfied the ball wouldn’t accidentally tip over and crash onto the floor, you turn with the intention to go back to your bed; you could shower in the morning.

The utter quiet cloaking the lab was eerie, but then again it was hidden and therefore did not strictly require guards as the Explodatorium did. Which made the fact there was a subtle glow from the auditorium all the more glaring.

Cautiously, you approach the doorway to the room and peek around the corner. Sure enough, someone is digging through the cabinet for alchemy ingredients, most likely. What you do find surprising is the culprit; you’d recognize that short stature and raven-headed staff anywhere.

“Plague Knight…?” You call out softly, voice mangled and scratchy.

You wince at the sound but take solace in the fact the alchemist didn’t seem to notice or care about the tone. Instead, he whipped around and hurriedly squawked, “M-minion?”

After his mask bobbed up and down, likely taking in your slightly ragged appearance, he calms down until his nervous jitters are expelled from his stature. He’s probably not used to being taken off guard.

“Wait a minute.” Plague Knight once again rakes up and down you figure before snapping his fingers. “Ah yes, you’re the one who’s been helping with the old script, yes?” 

You’re too tired to grace him with a verbal response, instead opted to nod once.

“Right, right,” he continues, “Didn’t Mona send you to the Lich Yard for some ectoplasm? It’s…” He taps his chin in thought before stating, “It’s quite late to be returning now. Have trouble with a – _hee hee_ – certain specter?”

You bite your tongue, unwilling to tell him the truth. No, this was your chance to again manipulate the conversation to gain your answers. After all, if Specter Knight was privy enough to how essences functioned, then surely Plague Knight’s expertise would far outstrip the reaper’s. 

You instead heave a weary sigh, shaking your head. “No, just…tired. Finding the invisishades was harder than I thought. All the stuff’s on Mona’s bench in the boiler room.” You jab a thumb back the direction you came. 

“Ah,” is all Plague Knight replies before turning away to look through the supplies.

Deciding to redirect his attention, you conversationally quip, “Saw another essence added to the Decanter. Is that the ‘looter’s’?”

Plague Knight stops fiddling with a few flasks and instead begins to chuckle under his breath. “Ohohoho, yes, yes; the essence of avarice, only belonging to the infamous Treasure Knight! That idiot’s greed knows no bounds, and I simply couldn’t help myself, _hee hee hee_ …!”

…was every member of the Order seriously ‘something-knight’ or was that naming scheme just really popular?

Doesn’t matter. Right now, you had more important things to do.

Who’s to say playing the fool won’t work on Plague Knight? Again, you hide the absolute zeal in your voice when you innocently question, “By the way, what is an essence? The term’s pretty broad…”

“Hmm…” Plague Knight once again stops whatever he’s doing in favor to tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Simplified, an essence is a person’s latent potential; it grows and changes within but is still malleable enough to be heavily influenced by their experiences. Truly, it’s capabilities are endless once gathered…”

And there he goes from competent instructor to muttering maniac. Well, at least he’s not screeching incoherently.

Snippets of a gaseous substance filter to the forefront of your mind, swirling with the twisted visages of writhing, screaming faces made of black and red. How awful it was to stare at their silent screams for the minute seconds before the flask containing them broke. And to think that horrid abomination was birthed from you.

The question was why. Why was your essence so…so _off_?

“Oh!” You chirp happily, a stark contrast to your whirlwind of thoughts. Plague Knight similarly perks up, attention redirected to you as you smack a fist into your hand. “You mentioned Treasure Knight’s essence was ‘avarice,’ so does that mean every essence has a sort of…uh, theme associated with it?”

The short alchemist hums under his breath before replying, “More or less, yes; there’s often a driving force behind every individual.”

Before he can say anything more, you tilt your head questioningly before quickly asking, “Wait, does that mean you can sense a person’s essence, too?”

It was obvious Plague Knight was beginning to catch on that you were just playing the part of an ass-kissing protégé, since he wasn’t as excited to give an answer. Instead, you feel his scrutinizing gaze from beneath his bird-shaped mask.

“It seems as though you’re not so oblivious as most of my other minions,” Plague Knight says slowly. You shake the urge to shiver as fear winds its way up your spine.

Maybe you truly were a fool who was playing with people who were far more dangerous than you gave them credit for. Here was the most infamous alchemist who openly threatened you upon your first meeting; just because you had some ill-suited curiosity and a perchance for reading loopy letters, you weren’t exempt from his influence. 

Just because you’ve been lucky with your encounters with the other knights of the Order of No Quarter, doesn’t mean it won’t catch up. There’s a time and a place to play, but now you’ve crossed a fine line.

The abrupt tension is cut when Plague Knight begins to gleefully cackle.

“Yes, yes, such luck I had recruiting you! You’ve proven to have the natural mind of an alchemist, _hee hee hee_! And with a knack for deciphering that ridiculous old script?” Plague Knight again levels an almost fond stare at you. “Heh, you’ll be going places for sure, minion!”

As relief floods your system and your heart rate begins to drop back to normal, the knight snaps his fingers. “Right, and as to your previous inquiry, yes; but only the most – _hee hee_ – seasoned of alchemists can judge an essence without first extracting it.”

Then he idly waves a hand at you before turning back to the cabinet. “But it’s late and more questions can wait. Get to bed; we still have more old script recipes to test tomorrow—er, later today!”

You simply nod once and begin retracing your steps until you find yourself back in your tiny dorm. In a rush, all of Plague Knight’s words come back, and a myriad of repressed feelings arrive alongside them. 

Like a starstruck school girl experiencing her first crush, you heart flutters in your chest, palpitating in joy at all the praise the knight levied onto you. Then his seemingly throw-away comment of sensing a person’s inherent essence; he spared you in the beginning because he knew you had worth. From the onset, he had unknowingly confessed to seeing your worth in your admittedly abhorring essence. 

Sure, it was a tiny fragment compared to what is lost, but the emptiness within is eased slightly with this single answer. 

Then a small pang of disbelief rings when you realize he indirectly insulted both Draak and Styx for being useless minions; they were brilliant in their own rights! Draak was gifted with poisonous concoctions and bursting, while Styx seemed to have more knowledge than an entire row of books put together! Well, _you_ certainly didn’t believe all the other minions were oblivious oafs who didn’t know better.

Still the happy feelings welling in your chest keep the lingering worries of Specter Knight’s harsh words at bay. For once satisfied along with the void within, you drift off to sleep.

For now, your place was secured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to post this yesterday; whoops. 
> 
> Also, fun fact: Beat my file of _Plague of Shadows_ wearing the Pandemonium Cloak and it glitched the ending so badly that there was no music from the final boss onwards and the final cutscene of Plague Knight and Mona dancing didn't actually happen; they just walked off the screen before _THE END_ popped up. 
> 
> The cloak certainly lives up to its name.
> 
> If you've read this far, I hope you've enjoyed it!


	7. The Black Knight

“What are cipher coins made of?”

Plague Knight shifts from his position of hunching over his demonstration table and peers at the minion whose hand is currently raised. He places a finger under his chin while idly fiddling with one of the green coins in his other hand.

“A valid question, minion! The composition—” At this he holds one up in a flourish, garnering a chorus of curious gasps, “—of cipher coins is currently unknown. But what we have figured out is that they are made of a peculiar combination of certain alloys, mainly metals such as iron and even rarer ores like silver. However, it is widely assumed most of its makeup is, in fact, solidified magic.”

You hurriedly scratch down his words on the spare piece of parchment Styx gave you prior to the seminar. While it takes practice not smearing the fresh ink everywhere – when were pencils and by proxy, erasers invented again? – it was equally frustrating having to continuously dip the feather for more ink.

Your notes continue as Plague Knight begins talking about what solidified magic is thought to be. Really, the whole thing was just a theory, but a plausible one nonetheless. Basically, it's made from the many pores scattered throughout the land and besides jewels and other ores being formed, the excess magic would solidify upon surfacing. Hence why it was a bootleg philosopher’s stone; pure magic could be exchanged for anything.

Well, anything physical. You studied this stuff in your spare time, after all.

“—which is why it’s assumed cipher coins are exceptionally useful in the art of crafting explosives.” Plague Knight places his cipher coin onto the table, along with the sizable pile already present. After a moment’s pause, he peeks at Mona who rests against the doorway nonchalantly.

The small alchemist erupts into a small fit of giggles before gesturing to her. Unlike most of her interactions in these classes, she responds with a nearly manic smirk and an undeniable wicked glint in her eyes. 

Your feather stalls as you lean forward. This oughta be good.

“ _Hee hee hee_! We have a real treat for you today, minions!” At this, Plague Knight wrings his hands together as if excited before turning toward Mona, who reaches into her cloak. Retrieving a small battered notebook, the woman flips it open to scan a few pages. She nods once at the jittering knight, who begins giggling again.

“Since I’ve collected quite a few cipher coins, why not use them in a live demonstration of their capabilities?” He nods at Mona before saying, “Surely this is satisfactory for all your research…?”

“Plenty,” is all Mona says in response. But the grin tugging at her lips speaks volumes of her own glee.

You hear Draak gush excitedly and Styx immediately shush him. Honestly, you’re surprised you aren’t spewing thrilled comments since you’re literally at the edge of your seat. Eh, must be desensitized to working in conjunction with the rather eccentric pair of alchemists.

Mona readjusts her hold on her notebook before holding out her other hand in a beckoning gesture. The green coins shutter on the table before being lifted off by Mona’s summons. They rapidly flip through the air and swirl around the now cackling woman in an elegant cacophony of movement. Their spinning and twirling quickens until Mona’s cloak is disturbed by the winds they’ve created.

While it looked pretty awesome, a small sliver of paranoia crawls up your spine and infects your throat. The visuals were startlingly similar to a certain reaper whose own mantle billowed in conjured winds. You swallow away the primal fear, comforting yourself Mona was the least likely to kill you.

It all ends when she clenches her outstretched hand into a fist. The motion immediately interrupts the coins’ orbit, breaking each one as they shattered into a shower of fine green powder. If you didn’t know any better, you’d mistake the stuff for fulminating silver.

Then, just as abruptly, the still-floating powder reorganizes itself into an amalgamation of…well, different colored powders, various shaped flasks with peculiar valves, even some solutions in normal bottles. It didn’t take a genius to figure out these were all various components for making bombs. Casings, powders…burst potions, maybe? 

Still the raw display of concentration and alchemy has you happily clapping along with most of the other minions in the auditorium. From your peripheral you even see Draak jump up, both fists in the air. You nearly mimic him but opt for just shooting two thumbs up at Mona, who looks pleased with herself regardless of the attention. 

Just as everyone begins calming down from the frankly awesome demonstration, you barely catch Plague Knight looking at Mona and whispering, “I’ll pay you later, heh heh…” 

Ignoring the fact that probably everyone heard his small quip – you were sitting in the back – the knight gestured to his assistant. Voice clearly tinted with pride, he commented, “Yes, what a brilliant display of alchemy! And as you can see, all these bomb components were crafted just from the use of cipher coins alone!”

A wave of murmurs erupts from the rows of minions, likely discussing how it could be done or expressing their concern since nothing was stopping Plague Knight from testing new bombs on them. You recall the times when the crazed knight had chased you around, hurling bombs in an effort to strengthen your bursting abilities; a small shudder wracks through you.

“While this seminar on cipher coins is now concluded,” Plague Knight begins, resulting in a sudden hush over the crowd, “I have another announcement!”

You exchange silent looks with Styx and Draak, who likewise lean forward eagerly. 

“Minions, pack your bags; I’m taking over the Armor Outpost!” His reedy voice is cut off by the amount of gasps and cheers from the class, gleeful hooting and hollering filling the air. You remember your trip alongside Percy and his entourage, how they spoke of their preparations; guess it was finally time.

Silently, what remains of your morality chastised you for your excitement at the prospect. While you have nothing against the people of the outpost – since you didn’t even know anyone there – you did know how badly others treated fellow minions given the opportunity. Guilt by association; you understood the concept but didn’t really care too much. Yet the fact you friends have experienced that sort of thing…

Looking aside, you see Draak leaping from his seat in another fit of joy; even Styx was clearly excited, nodding his head eagerly. Even if it wasn’t for your benefit, it was a victory for your friends who understand alienation. They deserved this.

So you remain seated, but smile widely behind your mask and nod along. At the very least, it would be interesting to witness a hostile takeover.

**—**

Huffing, you readjust your grip on the sack thrown over your shoulder.

While you didn’t bring too many things – since this was apparently just a temporary set-up – the multiple bombs you stashed were beginning to dig into your back. Ignoring the fact you’re practically carrying a potential disaster waiting to happen, you trek onward without too much worry. If it comes down to it, you newly acquired chemical-coated robes should nullify a large amount of the resulting harsh residue in case of an explosion.

“Why’d you think boss separated us like this?” Draak questions innocently, tugging at his own noticeably full sack. He was the strongest and offered to carry the most necessary supplies, like food and clothes.

“Probably not to alert too many knights,” Styx replies. “Plenty of them hang around the outpost, and if they saw a makeshift army of us approaching it would kinda ruin the surprise tactic Plague Knight is aiming for.”

Draak lets out an awed breath. “Wow, I never would’ve thought of that. It makes sense, though. First Mr. Percy and his group sets up the catapult, followed by a few more groups of minions, including us!”

You smile as he playfully nudges both you and Styx. While you remained silent and wary of your surroundings – too many surprise ambushes the last few times you were out and about – you couldn’t agree more. It was one thing to travel with other minions, but an entirely other ordeal to traverse alongside your closest and arguably only friends. Plague Knight and Mona didn’t count; they were more like higher-ups who just took a slight shine to you.

“Certainly helps that we’re accustomed to each other’s capabilities,” Styx adds, a hint of pride seeping into his voice. He pats his own bulging sack affectionately, commenting, “And in anyone tries to intervene, we’ll just show them first-hand the capabilities of alchemy.”

You can’t help the stunted chuckle, knowing full well how much Styx loves alchemy. Prior to leaving, you and Draak even poked a bit of fun at him for basically packing only alchemy ingredients and various pieces of chalk for his transmutations. He just responded with a miffed, ‘Well, someone needs to look after you two brutes.’

Your thoughts trail off as you recall leaving the lab earlier. Once Plague Knight had selected which minions would accompany him in his take-over, he had separated them into groupings of three or four. Essentially, only those who’ve proven themselves capable of combat were allowed to go act as support, if things went south.

Considering only about a dozen or so minions were traversing over the paths to Armor Outpost, it seemed likely Plague Knight was aiming for a secretive endeavor. You kind of figure you’re only there to provide additional support if necessary, or if everything goes seamlessly, instead carry some of the stolen goods. Still, it was basically ensuring an encounter since there was never a concrete plan to begin with.

Aside from all the theories you had about this, you were just glad to have been assigned to your closest allies. 

Sure enough, he grouped you alongside Draak and Styx. Plague Knight’s own quips regarding the matter was simply the fact you and Draak were suitably equipped to handle moderate to intensive threats while Styx was good enough at transmutations to fill the role of support. While surprising to hear some semblance of logic regarding combat come from him – who was adept in trickery and deceit, not fighting – you found yourself agreeing with him.

Then again, not like you were some expert or anything. Nope; you were just abhorrently lucky when it came to surviving all your battles. Well, more like surviving your random encounters with a certain reaper.

You can’t help wrinkling your nose in distaste when you remember your latest encounter. Prick.

On the other hand, no one really knew about your various hostile-ranging-on-indifferent encounters with Specter Knight. Hell, at this point you might as well be labeled acquaintances. For one, you didn’t want to draw needless attention to yourself or the mysterious guy, but he also seemed to have the answers you’ve wanted ever since you woke up in this world. It would be stupid to bring attention to something you’ve tried to keep on the down-low. 

“Hey…” Your thoughts are interrupted by Draak’s surprisingly quiet voice. When Styx doesn’t respond, you turn to find him instead looking down at you.

Now that he’s secured your attention, he begins, voice uncharacteristically soft, “Y’know, it kinda seems like you’re almost…I dunno, happier than you were when we first met.” He abruptly fidgets before hastily stammering, “I-I mean…! Please don’t take that the wrong way, but—I just—you seem more chipper since you began directly working with the boss and Mona...!”

Well. You certainly weren’t expecting that.

From your peripheral you see Styx thumb his chin in thought before agreeing. “You know, I think he’s right. Even if you’re getting blown up nearly every day—” At this your two friends snicker, “—you’re clearly having a good time.”

Deciding to redirect this situation – how else could you deal with their utter sincerity and then tell them they were so, so wrong? – you just flash a single thumbs-up. “Don’t you mean having a…blast?”

As you wait for the ball you drop, you feel your chest constrict in silent joy at the intense urge to laugh. A complete silence now surrounds your trio, and you wonder what they’ll think of your lame humor. Another beat passes before Styx bursts out laughing, your own unrestrained chortles joining his in a chorus of blubbering joy. You watch Draak’s mask tilt down in what looks like subjugation as he begins to shake his hooded head. 

The prior tension drifts away as you and Styx grapple your bags and grip your sides from the outburst. Draak simply pretends neither of you are there, looking pointedly everywhere except you two. He finally releases an upset groan, sending both you and Styx into another round of roaring laughter. 

You continue laughing alongside you companions, ignoring the writhing guilt in your stomach, coiled like a snake and ready to burst at any moment. But how else could you maintain their friendship, their _trust_ , if you revealed you’ve been lying to them for so long? Hell, you weren’t even sure you trusted yourself, much less them. If they didn’t really _know_ you, it would hurt far less if they did. It hurts to think such things but they ring true. 

Keep them at arms’ length so they don’t have the chance to hurt you, but have them close so you can cling on if need be.

...It was abhorrently _selfish_ on your part - how could it not be? - but that didn’t really matter. As you’ve come to discover, it grows easier with acceptance and time to admit your own shortcomings. Selfishness just happens to be one of them.

After all, was it really wrong to place your own well-being above others? Was self-preservation so bad…?

The void inside insists it’s not, that what you’re doing is fair and just. It’s acceptable to have faults, even those you are hesitant to work upon for fear of losing even more of yourself to those around you. It’s fine; easier, even.

Deeper than the darkness of your heart, your morality cries out feebly, warning you against such behaviour. Surely only destruction will follow if you fail to share your existence with others, even if there’s a risk accompanying such a gesture. 

You know it’s nothing more than a dangerous balancing act. Yes, while it may be easier to push everyone away to prevent yourself from being hurt in the first place, it hurts being alone all the time, too.

You would know; the lab taught you that much.

But this is fine. Not like they know you’re deceiving them anyway.

As with most things, it grows easier to deceive others with time. Practice makes perfect, and adorning a facade proves to be no different. It’s only fitting you now wear a real mask after all the time and effort to put into acting as if nothing was wrong. This is especially true when around those who have no reason to suspect in the first place. Of course, you’re still glad something is there to conceal your face in case the facade breaks.

Your smile never really did reach your eyes, after all.

Ignoring the shame and indifference fighting for your attention, you continue walking alongside your companions in relative if muted glee. You speak to them as if you weren’t experiencing a nasty quarrel between your morals and apathy; you speak when spoken to, you gesture when necessary, you laugh when expected. 

Everything is fine the way it is.

**—**

It’s roughly a few hours after midday, if the sun’s position in the sky and Styx’s comment are anything to go by.

After a quick break to refuel and rest your poor legs - you hate to admit you weren’t used to walking nearly as much ever since you discovered bursting - your trio was on the move again. Considering the Armor Outpost was only a half-day’s travel from the lab, you could afford to pause your journey. That’s, of course, besides the point there wasn’t really a set plan to begin with...who knew when Plague Knight would arrive at the place anyway?

All you know was that the pesky alchemist had to first regroup with Percy to be catapulted into the outpost. And according to the physics-loving horse-man, the catapult was coordinated to land somewhere relatively hidden so the knight could elude the public for a bit of secret reconoscence before making his move from the shadows. 

Seemed sound enough, but that certainly didn’t factor in any of the other minions sent for ‘back-up,’ whatever _that_ entailed. Ugh, you should’ve known or at least expected Plague Knight can’t - or refuses to, anyway - plan for shit. Not like his bullheadedness nearly blew you up everyday when you worked with him, nope.

Just...great. 

Malcontent with the shoddy plan to show up at the Armor Outpost and nothing else, you wrinkle your nose in distaste when you see the airship above the horizon. Looks like it was nearly showtime.

Even for all your internal grumbling - why was it only now you realized how stupid this trip was? - the change of scenery would be much appreciated. Nothing but dirt paths and lush green forests for the entire journey. 

Discounting the adrenaline slowly filtering into your system at the prospect of witnessing some action, your companions’ excitement is beginning to rub off on you. 

Draak and Styx are speaking animatedly amongst themselves, wondering what’s going to happen and if they’ll get there in time among other idle comments. You chime in a few times but remain vigilant; you doubt Specter Knight will make one of his stupid surprise appearances, but better safe than sorry. Even if you felt bad for puppeting around their knowledge regarding you, you’d be damned if the knight got his hands on them. 

So when you hear the clinking of armor through your friends’ chatter you immediately prep your burst potion.

From the shadows of the trees lining the dirt road you catch a glimpse of what looks like red. Without restraint you drop you bag and hurl yourself at the offending visage, barely catching onto your companions’ surprise though the adrenaline-fueled _thmp-thmp_ of your heartbeat.

As soon as your feet leave the ground beneath do you realize how your actions could royally fuck things up. For one, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched if by separating yourself from your allies you offered up yourself on a silver platter. Of course, there’s always the risk of you instigating an unknown who proves to be even more of an advisory compared to the reaper. Best case scenario, it’s just a random passerby who can’t fight anyway.

Too bad your luck is utter shit. 

You notice your little stunt has caught the attention of the mysterious bystander, who reveals themselves by retaliating with their own attack. Through the resulting flash of magenta you catch a glimpse of obsidian armor accented with red before you’re forced to dodge a concentrated mass of magic.

Righting your momentum with a hasty flap of your wings, you ignore how the blasts shreds into a nearby tree with startling ease. As soon as the potion in your gloved hand is warm again, you prep it and burst away the moment the stranger launches another magic projectile.

You land between the armor-clad individual and your allies, who have finally set aside their possessions readying for the sure to be fight. From your peripheral you see Draak hunch over and grip his own burst potion as Styx holds a single piece of chalk at the ready. Briefly, a flash of guilt sows itself into your conscious; instigating an unknown who could very well kill your comrades? Stupid if not utterly foolish.

Sure enough, your mysterious interloper continues to launch multiple blasts of magic in your general direction. You hear the telltale crack of a transmutation behind you, but your focus is solely on the silhouette hidden amongst the forests’ shadows. 

Knowing their black armor will enable them to effectively blend into the woods with little trouble, your first priority should be to force them from that safety net. As it stands, the only way you could accomplish that would be to get behind them and feint them away from the trees. Even if your only combat experience has been running around, landing lucky hits on a flying ghoul of a man, your common sense would have to suffice for now.

So you try to adhere to your plot as best you can, prepping another jump before throwing yourself at the treeline. Just as the knight - who else wears armor? - hurls yet another magenta blast toward you, your arms flap and pivot around the ball of destructive magic. You can barely feel the raw heat through all your chemical-coated robes and mask before landing squarely behind the...well, short knight.

He - if his stout and muscular physique is anything to go by - lets out a particularly shrill gasp of surprise. While attempting to stick to your plan, you prep your potion as soon as you can before pressing on the valve. The resulting green haze is a welcome sight, especially when accompanied by a fit of coughs; direct hit! Even better was how you launched your body directly at the knight, who was still struggling to escape the irritant of your burst. 

A sense of deja vu creeps into your system just as you throw your legs in front of you. Your brawl with Shovel Knight comes to mind not a second too late and you barely remember to not _kick_ the knight’s helmet, lest your toes suffer for the rest of the fight. Instead, you find your feet firmly planting themselves on his face.

With a hasty shove since your burts’ momentum was still pulling you through the air, you kick off the knight’s face and try to ignore the indignant squeaking coming from him. 

While successful in transferring your latent momentum via a nearly elastic collision, you failed to account for the fact you similarly launched yourself backward. Your mistake makes itself painfully apparent - _ha ha_ \- the moment your body is flung into a tree. 

Head spinning and back aching, you haul yourself up as fast as you can; gotta take advantage of your opponent's opening. Also, time to see if your half-assed plan even worked.

Not trusting yourself to burst jump in your state, you stumble through the trees like a drunkard.

As soon as you make your way back to the dirt path, your eyes take in the sight before you. Even though you caught glimpses of the mystery knight and his general appearance, you’d like to think he wasn’t actually so ridiculously similar to a certain cerulean knight.

Like...it was almost like it was Shovel Knight, but just...decked out in obsidian armor lined with scarlet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the chivalrous knight you encountered in the Explodatorium decided to screw the act and become evil or something. For crying out loud, this dude wielded a shovel too! And here you were, thinking it was goddamn staff he was using to cast those magic blasts at you.

Expelling the last dregs of dizziness from your fall, you finally gather your bearings enough to realize the mysterious black knight is speaking to your companions.

“I’d recognize those flagrant robes anywhere,” his strangely squeaky voice begins; it’s even reedier than Plague Knight’s. Silently agreeing with his snide comment, you watch him readjust his similarly black and red spade, holding it protectively in front of him. 

With a flourish the small knight plants his weapon in the dirt before crossing his arms in a haughty fashion. “I had heard rumors your idiotic boss would attempt to take Armor Outpost; I suppose you being here proves it!”

After his declaration chaos ensued. You heard Draak cry out that calling Plague Knight an idiot was rude and saw Styx’s shoulders grow taut in repressed frustration. Without waiting, Draak’s monstrous figure bursts directly at the tiny knight and begins to feint and dodge around the knight’s swings. Just as your ally lands a point-blank hit with another burst, you similarly burst jump over the fighting pair.

Surprised that Draak can seemingly hold his own against this apparently strong knight, you can only hope you won’t get in the way when you eventually rejoin the tussel. But for the moment, you immediately duck behind the dirt wall Styx must’ve transmuted earlier for cover.

You nod once at Styx who returns the sentiment. Although he’s currently hiding away from the ruckus and resulting clouds of green fog - likely poisonous, considering it was Draak’s doing - you notice the three fat bags resting alongside him. You hurriedly dig through the magenta sacks until you find your cluster bombs, placing them into your robe’s pockets for use later. You had to be careful, though; maybe this guy could reflect them back with his shovel too.

Just as you peek around the wall to glimpse how Draak was holding up, Styx shoves something in your vision. It almost looks like a tiny bomb, but instead of a viscous fluid inside the glass a gray gas swirls. You notice there’s a suspicious lack of a valve and know you’ll have to break the glass to get whatever concoction is inside to work.

“Only got a few of these,” Styx says. He shakes it in your general direction and you pry the small bottle from him and replace it into your sleeve. As you fumble with securing the tiny thing, he tells you, “Nothing like the arcana boss uses, but it’s a single-use smoke bomb; it’ll temporarily make you invisible. Use it if you’re in a pinch.”

You note how strained his voice is before deciding it’s best not to think on it; you had an enemy still at large. Prepping your burst potion, you nod a final time at Styx before jumping back to your feet with the intention to aid Draak. 

Knowing your mask will diffuse most of the toxins present in Draak’s bombs and bursts, you leap into the fray without hesitation. More surprisingly is the fact that, besides exchanging blows, the two were also speaking.

“I won’t allow that deranged alchemist to achieve the ultimate potion…!” The black knight growls out but it sounds absolutely dumb with how high-pitched his voice is.

“What he does is none of your business!” Draak bites back, feinting backward and out of reach from a quick swing of a shovel. Noting your presence, he dodges to the side as soon as you land, cornering the knight between the two of you. 

While you’d like nothing more than to stew upon what the knight said, you can’t afford to let your guard down. As if to exemplify the risks associated with such distractions, the black knight rears back toward you and instead of swiping at you with his shovel, he instead leaps into the air before using his spade as a stand. Under the man’s weight, the spade quickly plummets down with you as its target.

You prep your potion for another burst, waiting until the last moment before releasing the pressure and jumping away. No sooner than your feet leaving the ground did the shovel impale the ground with such force it was nearly buried to the hilt. It was...strangely similar to the move Shovel Knight used. And again, you’re glad you didn’t get hit.

Tucking away ‘ultimate potion’ for later mulling, you refocus on the small knight, who was clearly struggling to remove his spade from the earth; the green fog around him certainly wasn’t doing him any favors. Deciding to take the chance given his impaired vision, you remove one of your cluster bombs and signal for Draak to move away; he obliges immediately.

Lighting the fuse on the valve, you hurl the bomb at the knight and jump back at the resulting blast. 

An array of familiar yellow-green explosions greet your eyes along with a choked yell. Direct hit; you smirk beneath your mask. Just as you contemplate throwing your only remaining cluster bomb, the black knight leaps from the blasts, spade held aloft to strike down. 

A tiny glass casing whizzes through the air at the knight, hitting him in a tiny puff of green. The tiniest opening presents itself and you hurriedly dodge by jumping to the side, the shovel once again impaled into the dirt. You shoot a grateful look at Styx before returning your attention to the struggling knight.

This song and dance of evasion, hit-and-run tactics, amongst sporadic but annoying clouds of noxious green fog continues for what feels like forever. Considering the sun hasn’t really fallen, the battle couldn’t have been longer than a half hour. Still, the strain was making your movements sluggish.

Your poor constitution and utter fatigue bite you in the ass sooner than you’d like.

In your attempt to keep the black knight pincered between you and Draak, you had failed to notice how close you allowed your adversary near Styx’s safe spot. 

Sure enough, not a second after your abrupt realization does everything fall into place. Everything seems to slow down as you watch Styx twist around the corner to likely throw another of his simple yet still effective black powder bombs. He apparently realizes his mistake when he not only fails to dive behind his wall, but instead stops like a deer caught in headlights as the black knight rears his shovel back, undoubtedly aiming to incapacitate your ally.

Of course Styx hasn’t really been in combat with a strong opponent before; it was expected he would freeze up!

With your burst potion already prepped, you unleash it in a flurry of movement, vaulting directly at your stoney companion. 

It was common tactic to get rid of the support first; you inwardly curse at this belated epiphany. What with your poor stamina, you probably couldn’t keep up this fight for much longer, and even if Draak was surprisingly adept at close-range, he couldn’t hold out forever. 

Also factoring how Styx’s constant bombs made a variety of openings and distractions, coupled with your waning concentration...No; you had to save Styx or this fight would be over.

Your current position as the weakest link only fueled your idiotic stunt.

Faintly, you recognize the black knight’s squeaky voice as he snarls, “Pesky little wannabe-alchemist…!” But you ignore the words in favor of instead slamming your entire body into the barely smaller man. 

Just as you collide, you hear another startled gasp emanate from the tiny knight, but you blearily register his shovel being redirected away from Styx. You can’t help but curse as the sharp edges of the guy’s armor dig through your robes and into your skin painfully; you wouldn’t be surprised if your torso became a big bruise later.

You crash into the ground along with the black knight, clawing at him all the while in some poor attempt to either incite pain or dislodge yourself from him. Regardless, you note the distinct lack of a familiar pear-shaped bottle in you hand; damnit, must’ve dropped it in the commotion. 

Instead - like a goddamn suicidal fool - you reach into your sleeve and procure the only cluster bomb you have left. 

You plan doesn’t go unnoticed by the black knight, who immediately readies his shovel. Before you can throw the damn thing, the dude’s spade swing through the air with a muted _swish_ just before the thing rams into your head. 

Immediately all noise cuts out along with your vision, which is now clouded with black dots. You barely register the dull echo of your body flopping onto the ground through the haziness and pain thrumming through your skull.

But through the fogginess of your pain and disorientation you hear the snide laughter from the black knight. Forcing your eyes to focus through the mess of black dotting the edges of your vision, you see the smug bastard standing over you, arms crossed in triumph and shoulders shaking in mirth.

Knowing he won’t know you’re looking at him through your mask - thankfully still attached - you quickly think of a way to get back at the asshole. Really? Laughing in the middle of the still ongoing fight?

Hissing in pain and playing up the ‘I just had my clock cleaned’ situation, you feebly roll onto you side while discreetly searching for your fallen cluster bomb. Once your fingers come across the familiar casing do you quickly grab and hurl it at the infuriating squeaky knight.

Whether or not you managed a snippy “Fuck off!” is up to interpretation, but the resulting blast is as glorious as it was before. While it was pleasing to hear his chortle-fest cut out into a fit of coughing, you still had the deal with the fact your abrupt motion sent a whole new wave of dizziness through your head. 

Internally griping about how many times you’ve been smacked in the head or near it, you try to pick yourself up but fail miserably. You settle for crawling away from the lingering lights of the cluster explosion lest you get blindsided and actually get knocked out. Before you can worm your way too out of reach, a harsh whistle cuts through all the sounds of the background. 

Adrenaline spikes your heart rate when you realize you recognize that familiar hum. 

In the internal frenzy you twist around and are met with what you hoped wasn’t happening: the black knight is once again riding his shovel through the air, its spade pointed directly at your torso. No matter where it hits your chest you figure it’ll probably be fatal. Even your suicidal tactic with Specter Knight would probably amount to nothing next to being impaled by a goddamn gardening tool.

Like the last time you faced certain doom, you peer up at the black knight. As with most everyone who wears fancy armor, his face is obscured in the inky shadows of his visor, disallowing you to know what he could possibly be thinking. All you know is that you should’ve expected lethal force the longer this battle drew on. 

Before you can accept your demise and the shadow looming over you, another, distinctly larger shadow throws itself in front of you. 

Mind still fuzzy and vision blurry from a probable concussion, you almost don’t believe it when you watch Draak - it could only be him, given the impossibly tall shadow - effortlessly deflect the incoming shovel. 

With a sound not unlike iron hitting another metallic drum, the shovel is abruptly flung out of the black knight’s grip. A fierce, nearly animalistic snarl pierces the air as your friend lurches forward to attack, swinging his empty hand only for the tiny knight to leap out of range.

Still dizzy with delerium, you try to voice your thanks but your tongue refuses to cooperate. So you settle for simply watching Draak prepare and subsequently burst at the knight, who has successfully collected his weapon.

Finding the strength to resume crawling to safety - Styx’s barrier - you continue watching the fight play out. Once again, Draak has engaged in close combat but you immediately notice how frenzied his attacks and bursts are; the fact makes you feel guilty since you can only assume he’s riled up due to your fragility. 

Everything seems to stop the second the black knight manages a swift but powerful swing across Draak’s mask.

Apparently, there was enough force so that the familiar magenta piece was flung off of your friend’s face and into the nearby woods. While you fully respected Draak’s privacy in regards to his face, you couldn’t pry your eyes away now that you could _see_.

The first word that comes to mind is ‘dragon.’ Even if you’ve seen women whose heads were those of deer or horses, you’ve never even _heard_ of people who bore even the slightest resemblance to reptiles, much less dragons. Okay, maybe bird-folk were technically reptilian by evolution and taxonomy’s standards, but it still stands that no one was equated with being draconic. Dragons were monsters, plain and simple.

...Except Draak was clearly a dragon, and he was the furthest thing from a monster. Sure, his face was elongated and plated with brilliant green scales not unlike your robes, and yeah, his mouth was outlined with jagged teeth which were certainly intimidating, but he was by far the most docile thing you’ve stumbled upon in this world.

You watch in a daze as Draak whirls on the black knight, throat rumbling with a beastly growl before opening his jaws to release a stream of a bright green fog. It’s kind of like a fire extinguisher, except of being frigid it’s instead corrosive if not poisonous, given how it begins eating away at the knight’s armor and causes its wearer to visibly stumble away as if burned.

Okay, so clearly he wasn’t very docile when fighting.

Regardless, maybe that didn’t really account for much since you’ve been here for maybe a month or so, but Draak was the sweetest guy who only seemed to want...friends…

Oh. Well, that would certainly explain why he was particular about always wearing his mask. And also why he was strangely adept at making toxic potions. 

A small spark of indignation alights in you gut when you realize Plague Knight probably recruited Draak just to have easy access to his poisonous capabilities, promising a place for the dragon where he would be accepted. It would almost have been too easy to draw Draak in with promises like those.

But you quickly quell the spark before it can grow; you can’t change the past and in the end, Draak found a trustworthy companion and friend in Styx. Although he previously told you otherwise time and time again, you don’t really feel like you’re his friend; after all, friends shouldn’t lie to each other like you do.

Beyond even that, you can’t stay mad at Plague Knight for taking advantage of a situation in which both parties benefit. Really, it’s just a different perspective compared to your own recruitment, what with you desiring place and him, your essence. 

And it’s almost ironic, given the fact you and your companions are placing yourself directly in harm's way by instigating this interloping knight to protect Plague Knight. Or rather, protect his plans for overthrowing Armor Outpost. Regardless, the black knight mentioned wanting to stop your boss’s schemes, and being the alchemist’s underlings you had to neutralize the threat before it could put a wrench in his opportunity.

So you ignore Draak’s identity in favor of continuing to crawl over to Styx’s position. 

As you drag yourself, you see Draak sidestep another of the knight’s swings before raising a claw to rake across the smaller man’s helmet. There’s so much force in the brutal move the black knight actually stumbles backwards.

You note how his seemingly inhuman strength makes a lot more sense, too.

Once you’ve made it behind his alchemic wall, you heave a sigh and peer at the familiar red potion held in front of you. With a tired thanks, you uncork the bottle and lift your mask so you can down the health tonic. Its warmth spreads through your body until arriving to slightly ease the throbbing in you skull. 

Styx stares down at the now empty flask. “...I’m sorry. It’s—it’s my fault you got hurt. I shouldn't have frozen like that. Sorry.”

His voice is quiet but filled to the brim with a keen regret nonetheless. 

“...‘s fine.” You wave off his apology, knowing it was really your own stupid fault for not noticing the black knight’s strategy earlier. In an admittedly poor attempt to cheer Styx up, you joke, “Besides, that guy’s got nothing on Specter Knight; I’ll be fine.”

You hold up a single thumbs-up and ignore the small sigh you recieve in response. You’re also pretty sure you hear your friend murmur “What to do with you…” but you don’t really care to acknowledge that since your quip _was_ in poor taste.

A harsh clang rings out above your dirt wall, sending a new wave of pain through your battered head. You look down at your lap and remember you lost your burst potion during your stunt. With no way you could possibly interrupt the fight between Draak and the knight to go looking for it, you resign yourself to sitting back and playing support with Styx.

You say as such and Styx - lovable transmutation guy he is - instantly retrieves a piece of chalk. He gathers a few vials of what looks like sand, black powder, a few scraps of metal and a bottle of green vitriol before placing them in an ugly pile. He quickly draws a complicated array and after a brief flash of light, a happy little set of several basic bombs sit.

“Never gets old,” you comment, reaching for one. You toss it up and down, trying to get a feel for it before deciding it’s too much effort while Draak is still fighting for both your sakes.

Shakily standing - another reason you couldn’t just play front-man again - you peek around the dirt wall. Once the dizzy spell fades, you rear your arm back and from your peripheral you watch Styx mimic your actions.

A wicked grin threatens to split your face; bombs were _always_ a treat.

**—**

For putting up such a tough and macho act, the black knight sure did scurry the fuck outta there once it was firmly established he wasn’t going to win. 

After a few biting comments cursing you “stupid alchemists and that dastardly Plague Knight,” the tiny guy just up and left. But you would’ve probably done the same if in his situation, given how utterly hilarious it was watching Draak land a beautiful hit which sent the guy flying through the air, only to gracefully face-plant on the dirt. You couldn’t even fathom the sheer embarrassment he must’ve felt.

The humor wasn’t lost on your companions either, especially when you yelled after his retreating form, “Yeah! And take that oversized spoon with you!”

You admit your spent the better part of a few minutes just laughing like a lunatic; honestly, it probably would’ve made Plague Knight’s random giggles fits look sane. Not like you were alone, considering the sheer relief that came with the victory making Draak and even Styx giddy with joy.

Once the so-to-speak afterglow wore off, silence reigned over your trio, heavy and awkward. Well, you assumed as such given the look Draak was shooting at you. Hell, if Styx wasn’t wearing his mask you’re sure he would have looked just as guilty given how unsurprised he was at the whole ‘Draak is a dragon’ deal.

Draak breaks the tension first. “Uhhh…” 

You raise an eyebrow but it goes unseen under your own mask. Still, the fact Draak was actually tapping his fingers - or were they claws? - together. He was so nervous it was almost endearing if you weren’t already preoccupied with the fact your friend is a _dragon_. 

It was pretty cool, if you were being completely honest. Dragons just don’t exist back where you’re from.

Deciding to ease the situation, you raise your hands defensively. “Look, I get it; er, I mean I guess I understand why you didn’t feel comfortable—”

“T-that’s not it!” Draak hurriedly inputs.

“—or whatever the reason might be for not telling me. It’s fine; really, it’s okay. I respect your privacy; y’know, you do you.” You wonder if your wording might be too out of the ordinary for him to follow, but the way his red eyes light up in understanding puts those worries to rest. 

“Regardless,” you continue, “I’m sorry this situation happened in the first place. But I don’t want you to feel like I think of you any differently.” You can’t help but blush in embarrassment at how noticeably Draak perks up more and more the longer you speak. “Um, just...you’re still Draak, and that’s all that matters.”

You can only watch with a detached fascination as his jagged maw crooks upward in a smile. He suddenly lurches forward and you find yourself smooshed into his worn robes, his arms wrapped securely around you.

Stiff but growing more resigned to this type of contact by the second, you reassure your stance by patting Draak on the back. Distractedly, you notice how the black scales lining the underneath of his lower jaw and extending down his throat are noticeably softer if not fleshier than the green scales of his face. 

The hug lasts longer than what you felt was necessary, but you persevere given the circumstances. Let Draak have his moment and all that. Exemplifying your thoughts on the matter, you muster as much care into your tired voice and murmur, “There, there, big guy. It’s cool.”

His body then begins to shudder and before you can comprehend the fact your friend is crying, something wet and distinctly painful lands on you neck. You can’t help but hiss in both pain and surprise.

No sooner than you voice your displeasure does Draak jump away from you. 

You idly rub the spot of your neck and look up at your friend. Sure enough, big globs of greenish fluid are dripping down his cheeks. At your glance he just sniffles and comments, “I-I’m sorry; my tears are a little bit corrosive, too.”

“Oh.” It must’ve dropped into your hood. “That’s actually pretty neat.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Styx chimes while stepping in to give Draak a friendly pat, “Everything about the big lug’s poisonous. Very helpful when it comes to alchemy.”

And just like that your trio resumes the normal banter.

Sure, it took a few minutes for Draak to stop blubbering, but you were glad everything turned out fine. Then again, you probably have a minor concussion, Draak wore out his poisonous breath and Styx used up about half of his supplies making bombs from scratch. Given how strong your opponent was, it all amounted to a win anyways.

After retrieving Draak’s mask - thankfully in tact - your group continues heading to the Armor Outpost. Given what just transpired between you three, the conversation eventually returned to the whole Draak thing.

Even without pressuring them - in fact you attempted to dissuade them since you didn’t want to reveal your own issues - Styx and Draak spoke about their own pasts and how they became Plague Knight’s minions. 

While you knew Styx was one of the first apprentices Plague Knight took under his wing, it was apparently a stroke of pure luck. 

Styx was a nobel, which wasn’t too surprising given his disposition. He always had a keen eye and love for the sciences, and at a young age learned of alchemy. As the art has a fairly poor reputation, he was never allowed to follow his dreams, what with being expected to head court and learn law as his predecessors and their predecessors have always done.

Turns out Styx had a fickle side when it came to his desires. Regardless of the punishments or repercussions on his family name, he continued to teach himself alchemy; he believed the transmutations it offered could be used to better the world’s technology and infrastructure. As it happens, Plague Knight was raiding his neighborhood for supplies when he accidentally stumbled upon Styx practicing his transmutations.

Plague Knight saw potential and offered Styx a place where he could continue practicing alchemy. Even knowing he would have to abandon his family and heritage to do so didn’t faze Styx in the slightest; ‘equivalent exchange’ he said, instantly promoting himself to Plague Knight’s good graces. The rest is history.

Draak’s recruitment was similar in regards to being accidental. Well, sort of. 

Since Draak is a dragon, he was often antagonized by a multitude of adventurers attempting to claim a bounty for the ‘fearsome beast’. In reality, since you believe your friend more than other random knights, Draak was simply trying to learn more about humans and their social ways, but others often mistook his friendly advances as antagonistic ones due to his appearance. 

Then the various knights came to challenge Draak, and given he had no choice but to defend himself, he reciprocated the violence. No person would listen to him or his reasonings, claiming he was just trying to ease them into safety before killing them for sport as other dragons do. Knowing this to be the general truth, Draak simply fell into a cycle of defeating all the knights who came.

Word eventually spread of a poisonous behemoth of a monster, and it garnered Plague Knight’s attention. Wanting some toxic materials for his own purposes, he sought out the supposed monster and instead found a battle-weary but still polite dragon. Seeing right through him, Plague Knight offered him a place so long as he offered his poisonous bodily compounds in turn. 

Hell, Plague Knight was the one who gave Draak his name, citing it meant ‘dragon’ in some other language of some distant land, or something. If that one action didn’t earn his loyalty, who knows what else could’ve. 

Draak even admitting himself why he was so keen on learning about humans; much like your earlier musings, he just wanted friends. Most other dragons are apparently prone to violence in a show of power and he was the odd one out. But for the most part, your prior thoughts on the matter were spot on.

It doesn’t surprise you to learn Styx already knew about Draak’s identity. 

_That_ was also an accident. Being one of his most trusted minions, Plague Knight often sends new recruits - much like he did with you - to Styx, since he’s a good teacher. The same was done with Draak, and then there was a mishap when Draak was learning to burst jump, his mask fell off, and everything happened much as it did with you.

It was certainly something to take in, but you found yourself growing more and more morose. How selfish of you to hear your friends spill their guts to you and you can’t even extend that same courtesy. 

Eventually you do admit you’ve been having strange dreams in a white room with lab equipment, but that’s about all you can say before giving away too much. Still, it achieves the desired effect; your friends still trust you and are even glad some of your memories have returned.

Goaded on by their encouragement, you simply smile under your mask and mention you were probably a scientist or something. Then you deflect as you always do, saying it’s almost poetic that you’re now an alchemist, to which your friends agree wholeheartedly. 

More idle conversation drifts about you and your companions, and before you know it you’ve arrived at the Armor Outpost. 

You’re both surprised and miffed that Plague Knight’s already managed to takeover the place, given how many minions are running about in the open. Your trio pauses to ask what happened only to learn Percy’s catapult missed, shunting your boss into a midst of knights. He soundly bested them and as a result, all the locals jumped into the airship and left in fear of their lives.

You scowl when you learn he also beat the crap out of the owner of the hat shop. The fact it was apparently quite the spectacle makes you curse that sniveling black knight.

No sooner than you thank the minion and make to leave does Plague Knight leap down from a nearby terrace. 

“I was beginning to wonder where my bumbling minions were!” He squawks at you three before resting his hand on his staff. “And what were you doing while I was taking over this dump?”

“We were held up, boss.” Styx sounds absolutely beat and you can’t blame him; you’re all in pretty poor shape, if you’re being honest. Surely Plague Knight can see that…?

“Yeah,” Draak chirps. “We fought this knight who was really strong!”

“A knight?” The tiny alchemist’s reedy voice is almost snide if not teetering on frustration. “You mean a _single_ knight?”

Draak seems to either ignore or fail to hear the veiled threat, instead confirming, “Yes—”

“—a black knight, sir.” There’s Styx with the diplomacy. Knowing you get exceptionally snippy when exhausted like you are now, you just stand still and shut your lips, hoping no rhetorical comments will escape.

Plague Knight visibly pauses in his anger, foot no longer tapping and posture going slack. He tilts his head at you three - who he’s looking at is anyone’s guess - before questioning, “And what did he look like?”

Wanting to get this conversation over with so you can rest your poor feet and treat the splitting headache you’ve been sporting, you flippantly reply, “He looked like Shovel Knight’s evil twin.”

“ _What_?” Plague Knight actually sounds surprised. You raise a brow.

Trying to make your point and to test your theory, you offhandedly mention, “Yeah, he wore this black armor and had these big red horns on his helmet. Wielded a shovel and used magic, too.”

Considering how much Plague Knight stilled at your descriptors, you figure your hypothesis is correct. It seems obvious your boss knows exactly who you fought and probably why, but you doubt you’ll extract that sort of information in your sorry state. Then again, considering the knight was aware of Plague Knight’s motives...

“Right!” Draak snaps his fingers. “He mentioned he heard you were going to take over this place and was going to stop you, but we managed to fight him off!”

There’s a long pause before Plague Knight’s squeaky voice pipes up, “...that’s good to hear, minions. And if you truly did best the Black Knight, then good riddance! That fool was always bothering me!”

With that he turns around, waving a single hand back at you. “Feel free to pilfer anything in sight. You can also stay here or return to the Potionarium, if you want. Other than that, you’re dismissed.”

You turn and share mindless shrugs with your companions before the three of you move on and inspect the various homes, seeing which ones were already void of valuables or being used like a hotel room. Since most of the Armor Outpost was dedicated to crafting, there weren’t many living quarters, but there weren’t many of you minions, either.

It thankfully doesn’t take too long for your triage to settle into the second floor of a studio, and after a short exchange of ‘good nights’ your fatigue washes over you and pulls you into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draak's a dragon; who would've thunk it? Says me, someone who literally looked up 'dragon' in other languages before writing this story.
> 
>  _Specter of Torment_ is really good, and so is the local dragon/Goldarmor.
> 
> Also edited the tagged relationships; still getting used to this AO3 thing.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


	8. The Yearning Confidant

You exit the sanitation chamber, wrinkling your nose at the strong smell of antiseptic clinging to you like a second skin. At this point in your career, it might as well be.

With practised ease you make your way to the room filled with nothing but tiny offices. There’s no walls between them, but there’s no need for privacy here; everyone knows exactly what they’re doing.

They have to. Company policy, really.

You sweep into your little cubicle and weave through your meager possessions. With the documents snug under your arm and presentation contained in the tiny device in your hand, you leave the hive and delve into the building’s underbelly.

The steady but thunderous _thmp-thmps_ of your heartbeat echo in your skull like an endless siren signaling the end. If this doesn’t go well, you will remain nothing more than another nameless cog in this machine. Replaceable and irredeemable. 

Short, stunted but garbled words are exchanged with various nameless silhouettes passing in the hall. You nod but don’t reply.

Stepping into the door with the blurry address - still you know it’s where you need to be - the sirens in your head blare once, twice, before falling quiet.

A dozen or so seats filled with a multitude of people dressed smartly in suits await, vistages blocked by the blinding lights bolted into the ceiling. You don’t - _can’t_ \- recognize them but you realize they hold your significance in the palms of their hands.

You don’t register the words escaping your lips with practiced ease hiding the intense strain, but your introduction goes well enough to garner scattered nods of acknowledgement. The tiny action pleases you more than it should. How starved you were for recognition.

You slip your device into the computer waiting on the podium and place your folder onto the lectern. 

Much like the machines you command, presenting your theory is mechanical: Present an argument when there is none, defend your thesis, refer to the data, address any possible counter arguments, end with asserting why this would be worth it. 

Your fate depends on their beliefs. For that end, you must sway their opinions toward your ideas and consequently, you. Here, it will be you who is in control for once.

Truth and lies are perceptions, just like being wrong or right. They are two sides of the same coin, and everyone has pockets full of change. No one is perfect and no one is imperfect; they simply are.

This extends to science. It is not just nor evil, but it can be applied in either manner depending on its user.

You work with microbes, specifically for the purpose of cultivating their potential for destruction. 

But there is a fallacy - are many - in that procedure. They may border the boundary between life and death, but their machinations are well understood and as a result are easily combated. 

There is something else which exists in their microscopic realm with vast destructive capabilities. There are no vaccinations nor any reliable method to defend against it. The symptoms of successful infection manifest themselves as those for other common, if not natural illnesses.

Nothing can be done once infected. It _will_ kill, maybe slowly and painfully, or quickly and painlessly. Random yet guaranteed. 

Better yet, there is no way to know its use was premeditated. Even if the only way to be sure is to conduct an autopsy, chances are it will be brushed aside as a rare but probable occurrence. 

While this particle’s uses in your field are promising, it doesn’t come without risks. You know this as does your audience, but you play your part as an expendable cog well enough. What is a single loss when there is always someone else who can easily replace them? And what of the newly autonomous machines? 

What is the difference between the two?

Your presentation is completed and the nervousness begins to flush from your system. 

Your faceless audience begins to stir before excusing you to speak among themselves. You nod in accession before taking your leave, folder snug beneath your arm and storage device in your grip.

The smell of antiseptic continues to cling to you, a constant reminder your work may very well take _your_ life as well.

For some reason, the thought is almost poetic.

**—**

You stay at the intact but still ravaged remains of the Armor Outpost for a few days under Plague Knight’s orders. Even if he told you to basically do whatever you want, he had found you the first morning after the takeover and commanded you remain to defend against any other knights seeking to liberate the place.

While a couple of knights from a nearby hall of something or other _did_ come to see if anything could be done, there was really nothing they could do with Plague Knight still in the vicinity. It was almost like the tiny alchemist was showing off or something, leaving only to continue doing...whatever he’s doing.

Regardless, you were often left to your own devices alongside Styx and Draak. Without the constant need to aid Plague Knight and Mona decipher the old script back at the lab, you didn’t really know what to do with yourself besides entertain your thoughts.

Honestly, it was bugging you how you didn’t understand what was going on in the grand scheme of things. 

The lingering words of the Black Knight - ‘the ultimate potion’ - were basically seared into the backs of your eyelids at this point, what with how often you found yourself mulling over them. So Plague Knight was concocting some incredible potion for some reason or other; big whoop. If anything, it was practically expected from the little nuisance, given his massive ego.

What you _have_ managed to gather so far is that this ultimate potion and Plague Knight’s obsession with essences were certainly related. Factoring your prior musings regarding the capabilities of essences, it would almost be too easy to write off the chance he’s gathering the strongest essences - and therefore most potential - with the plan to distill it into something which could be easily ‘used’. What’s better to use than a potion for an alchemist?

While it may seem to be that easy to figure out, it still doesn’t explain _why_ Plague Knight’s so hellbent on making the physical manifestation of a _wish_. Even if you’ve spend the afternoons of the past week or so in his company, it was always professional if not like a setting for acquaintances. There was no distinct feeling of friendliness or camaraderie; more like babysitting on your part, really.

As a result of this work environment, you still haven’t come to an understanding with Plague Knight. Even after weeks spent working under him and reasonable amount of time working _directly_ alongside him, his desires remained elusive. 

And it was obviously bugging you to no end.

To be frank, the only thing you understood rather plainly about your boss was the fact he was always occupied with something or other. As vague as the notion is, it was true how Plague Knight’s attention had to always be circulating around _something_. What was one of the first things he said in your company? Something along the lines of “if there’s time to collect, there’s time to concoct”…? 

The bugger had to be focused on something, regardless. Yet that alone would require a want leading such attention, such devotion. In turn, that want was obviously powerful enough to incite not only curiosity but action. Clearly, something was tugging along Plague Knight’s desires like a puppeteer and he the puppet.

Not like you, much less anyone could escape that sort of cycle. If anything, an instinctual call to action was one of the most promising if not satisfying ways to live. What use was all the time you had and the inherent curiosity possessed by people if no one ever applied themselves? 

You’d think it’d be a waste. Then again, you sort of knew what it was already like to have your potential wasted, withering away under the guise of standard protocol. And it was a waste of your talents.

To think of the potential if others not only came together but worked in unison...science could evolve new methods, new theories; could pave the foundation if not the roads for future endeavors. The possibilities could be basically _limitless_ if there weren’t so many patents for miracles and their technology.

It was one thing to be ever-curious, but another to exist in a world where such creativity is rationed.

Thinking back, you’re glad you’ve found place where you can finally express yourself without restraint.

Something still irks you about the ultimate potion and Plague Knight’s relentless quest for it. Then again, you suppose it’s really none of your business to begin with. Like with Draak, you’ll respect his secrecy for whatever reasons they might be, but all the same you do wish you could know _anything_ about your condition. 

Sure, you’ve managed to successfully scrounge up memories of bygone days where you had spent underground in a pristine white laboratory and endorsed the atrocities committed there. But at the same time you still don’t know your own goddamn _name_.

Even if you have your use and subsequently worth in Plague Knight’s eyes, how could you possibly _not_ be just another cog if your didn’t even own an identity? Were you not just another minion under his wing, another face; or rather, mask in the crowd?

Then there’s the science you’ve used back in your own world. Your loss of memories - or at least, most of them, if the emptiness inside you is any indication - doesn’t make _sense_. It’s been well over a month of you being essentially stranded in this distinctly fantasy world, which should have been more than enough time to recall the basics of your persona. 

No, instead you’ve healed inversely; memories of your life, your _career_ somehow usurped your own identity, your _name_.

Considering your base desires for purpose, for worth, it seems ridiculous you’ve forgotten your own name. It’s the most essential to your assets; after all, how could you possibly gain a standing to those you deem important if you lacked the name to ‘make a name for yourself’ with? The lack in logic is infuriating if not insulting to your psyche and everything you hold dear. 

Unless the magic present in this world is somehow tampering with regaining your memories—no, your _identity_ , something wasn’t adding up.

Alone in the room stolen away from the original owners of your building, a mirthless laugh bubbles and simmers away beneath your mask. You wonder if this is what Specter Knight meant when he said you’d never be satisfied with the way things are now. You also wonder if you’re truly that transparent to others. 

Knowing your erratic thought won’t be calmed if you continued to stew over your...predicament, you heave a great sigh and instead pluck your books from your meager possessions. Dwelling on the fact your broken self will never achieve complete worth will bear no fruit as it is, but perhaps learning of this world and its machinations will satisfy the void within. For a short while, at least.

Attempting to occupy your mind with useful information, you instead opt to open _Pridemoor: A General History_. Only various alchemical recipes were left unread in the other book. 

Tapping away at the wooden desk you sat at, your fingers continue turning the pages until something of interest popped up in your radar. While it was a small book - about the size of an average novel, if you had to guess - you certainly hadn’t finished it during your last session. Not to say general history was interesting; it’s difficult to entertain when there’s no other major events to speak of after the whole ‘previous kingdom disappearing overnight’ thing.

As foolhardy as it was, a small ember of hope alight in your chest when you stumbled upon another section dedicated to the other theories regarding the lost kingdom. Even better was the warning they be read with discretion as there’s hardly any proof for their merit; consider your interest piqued. 

You must’ve been pretty interested considering the beak of your mask bumped into the book with how close you’ve hunched over the words. Your mask set aside on the table and a small pause later you continue where you left off, soaking up the passages like a sponge left in the desert. 

These theories were nearly as juicy if not completely outlandish as the various conspiracy theories you’ve heard of.

And what was it with these authors and magical curses? Nearly all of these included or involved some sort of magical artifact or curse laid upon either the ruling royal family or the beneath the valley itself. Either the curse manifested itself as a spontaneous, forced death upon everyone or magically transported them elsewhere, like across the world or inside the world itself kinda bullshit.

While hilarious, it is noted that the bodies of the prior kingdom and its people were never found, even in various crypts scattered across the land today. Even all those skeletons who’ve made a home at and under the Lich Yard don’t account for nearly a fraction of the supposed population census of the old kingdom. 

In fact, it was important to note that the shape of the valley when Pridemoor was established was relatively intact; no sign of a massive genocide or widespread catastrophe as the original theory described. Again, more wacky theories indicated the people and their various settlements were whisked off into the abyss; the same abyss resting adjacent to the now-called Tower of Fate. 

Since those lands were basically unknown - no one who’s traversed there has ever returned - it was plausible if not a tad bit ridiculous. Again, who heard of magic deciding to act like technology from a completely different time and place to spirit away so many people? And for what? A nice vacation in hell?

You can’t help but scoff. Magic this, magic that. It was ludicrous this unwieldy force garnered so much attention when nothing about it was concrete for hypothesis testing or data collecting. It was just kinda _there_. 

Bias broiling beneath your skin, you think to yourself _alchemy_ is where it’s at. Practical theories which have basically been widely adopted as standard laws? Check. Said guidelines have functioned without much evidence to disprove their validity? Check. Potential use in a variety of other fields of research for the betterment of the population at large? Not really, but easily could be as Styx suggested.

But nooo, it was always _magic_. For one, the theories are just that; theories. And even they shouldn’t be called than since you can test a theory; you can’t really test something that’s basically intangible in every possible way. Sure, there’s nothing to disprove magic but you really can’t even if you tried since it’s impossible to _directly interact and perform a basic test_ on the stuff. Even in those fancy cipher coins; there was something else the ‘magic’ was binding to.

The way properties of magic remedied this blatant disregard for logic? A goddamn loophole. Oh, you can’t conduct test on magic because it’s a force which we can’t directly influence? Then how _else_ would you explain why transmutation arrays function as they do? Clearly there’s _something_ , so magic it is! 

Bah. Sure, maybe the connotations associated with the term back in your world are impeding your thoughts on the matter, but there’s nothing concrete except for the fact magic exists. Kinda a bit like saying nothing still accounts as something. It’s stupid and maybe pisses you off. Just a bit, though.

Great. Trying to avoid focusing of yourself now has you riled up at the world and how it works. Perfect.

Wrinkling your nose in distaste, you continue your reading in hopes it will alleviate the anger pulsing through your mind like vitriol. 

Picking up where you left off, you also discover something kind of interesting. When you had to opportunity to realize - excusing your complete and utter obliviousness - the technology of this world functions like two sides of the same coin. That is to say, it’s both rudimentary and extremely advanced, at the same time no less. While there may not be any paved roads to speak of, it’s certainly something to see electricity so abundant and seemingly _free_.

Apparently, it’s widely considered truth that these ‘gifts’ of technological advancement were actually relics - no, not _those_ kinds - excavated from the remains of the previous kingdom. The various airships flying about without regards to physics? Largely dug up from the earth and maintained in modern times through sheer willpower. 

Basically it’s a complete unknown how to actually build these things, but keeping them in working condition is a lot easier. Essentially, the method to manufacturing these technologies has been buried just like the prior empire, but the key to their continued maintenance is still known. Unexpected if not odd, to say the least.

It’s actually pretty neat, if you’re being completely honest. Much of the distinctly futuristic technology - electricity, airships, even a submarine if Plague Knight’s tale of beating Treasure Knight is anything to go by - owes its existence to the prior kingdom. Very interesting stuff indeed. But it certainly makes you wonder how that kingdom fell when it had all this highly advanced tech around, not to mention _how_ they built it in the first place.

Regardless, not like you’ll figure it out or care enough to even attempt so. With a small sigh you shut the old book and glance out the window; midday. Perfect time for a walk while playing patrol.

Standing up and doing a series of small stretches, you pat yourself down and note with a sense of familiarity your burst potion sits in your robe’s pocket. Just before you can replace your mask to your face, an abrupt chill seems to pierce the air and you can’t hide the harsh shiver wracking your spine.

You drop your mask in favor of hurriedly turning around, retrieving your burst potion in the same motion.

After a brief spectacle of watching a smear of red and black appear from the air before expanding into the familiar shape of Specter Knight, you stumble back directly into the desk. Cursing inwardly, you realize there’s no point in trying to distance yourself; you’re trapped in a single room.

You clutch the valve of your burst potion’s bottle and idly wonder if it’s worth it to try and fight. While thinking of ways to attract attention to yourself and your reaping interloper - was Plague Knight still in town? - said spectral knight simply ignored your presence and floated over to the wall before leaning against it almost casually. 

… _what_?

Then again, of course the sneaky knight would show himself if there was no immediate threat to his presence. The fact he doesn’t count you as a threat isn’t too surprising, if a bit arrogant. You _did_ manage to nearly incapacitate him that one time. But water under the bridge, _if_ his casual appearance was real.

Voicing your disbelief, you murmur a quiet but still frustrated, “What do _you_ want?”

Instead of replying to your concern, Specter Knight simply says, voice gravelly as ever, “I saw you managed to best the Black Knight. Impressive, for someone like you.”

A multitude of things cross your mind in the lull following his nonchalant words. Firstly, how dare he show his ugly mug after the sorry state he left you in the last time you met? He played you like a goddamn fiddle and he doesn’t even so much as give a shit! Secondly, what the fuck is his problem for sneaking up on you in the privacy on your own room? Ever heard of common decency, Specter Knight? Which brings you to your last complaint…

“...You’re a goddamn _creep_.” He was there? Watching you fight the Black Knight? The _entire_ time?

Instead of pissing him off like you’d expect coming from your lack of filter - what? You had every right to be befuddled in this situation - he surprises you by scoffing. Then you immediately realize your mask isn’t covering your face, and the fact makes you incredibly distressed; it was like you were naked. And judging by what both Draak and Styx have said, your facial expressions are not only easy to decipher, but stupidly sincere in regards to what you’re feeling.

So much went through your head in such a short amount of time you must’ve looked like an absolute idiot.

The fact Specter Knight brushes off your harsh accusation - fact, really - without so much twitching to get a handle on the scythe held under an arm does make you feel slightly reassured this won’t end in your untimely death. And considering he’s already here, you had the perfect opportunity to directly hassel the man for the answers he seems to have.

Before you can get a word in, his grumbling voice interrupts your thoughts. “As it were, I’m on a tight schedule so I cannot afford to waste too much time here.” 

You can’t contain the flare of indignation and it apparently shows because Specter Knight’s visor, previously angled away, now directly stared at you. With an eerie calm, as if stating water was clear he comments, “But I believe what I have to say will answer some of your questions.”

Like the dream - _memory_ \- you recently had, your heart rate spikes and thrums through your skull like a siren. Adrenaline runs through your veins like fire and you suddenly feel the urge to collapse right back into the desk. 

Surprise and suspicion must have contorted your expression because there’s no way it could be _that_ easy to get him to talk. As if he read your mind the reaper dispersed most of your worries, instead opting to say, “I assure you, this is not meant to be taken as good faith. Consider it… _entertainment_ for my behalf.”

It was certainly an odd thing to say, much less admit. But the way Specter Knight’s visor continued to seemingly stare through you as he had previously makes you pause. He’s undoubtedly gaining something from this exchange, but what could he possibly desire so badly he’s willing to give you satisfaction?

Either he’s completely toying with you or something else is at play here. 

Aware your thoughts are influencing all your expressions and consequently betraying any possible safety nets you could construct, you try to school your face into being stoney. If you were not wearing a physical mask, a emotionless one would have to do. Something told you Specter Knight wouldn’t take kindly if you reached behind for your real mask, anyway.

If anything, your common sense informs you that this man could not hope to gain anything unless you were alive. Why else would he reveal such pivotal information unless he largely benefited from the exchange? You were safe, and that was all that mattered. 

So you stand and wait for him to continue, silently watching him like a vulture ready to prey upon fresh carrion. 

A moment of utter silence passes between you. As it was before, you cannot distinguish Specter Knight’s face through his golden visor; instead you find yourself staring at an inky abyss. Assured he would not destroy his ‘entertainment,’ you feel yourself grow somewhat lax. In a single bold motion, you place your burst potion onto the desk before you hand returns to your side, empty and unarmed. 

Again, you’ve played your hand and hope it was the right move.

And again, you find yourself pleasantly surprised when you hear a lilting scoff emanate from the reaper. Was...was that his version of a _laugh_...? Well, whatever; as long as he wasn’t reaching for his scythe to kill you, it was all good.

It also comes to your belated attention you might’ve just insisted he wasn’t a threat by disarming yourself, but then you also realize he’s fought and nearly killed you before. And then realized you were just some poor fool dealt the shittiest of hands and tired to deal with it as best they could. Eh, he probably realized your intentions.

“I’ve been sent to gather the Order of No Quarter for a meeting with...our leader,” the reaper nearly chokes on the last words, almost as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. You ignore his deliberate removal of the Enchantress’s title - she was their leader, if you recalled - to think about later.

Unperturbed, Specter Knight continues in that disarming voice. “She wishes to enact greater control over the valley of Pridemoor.”

Okay…? What does that have to do with you, exactly? 

Your mask must have shifted and allowed him to glance your confusion. Instead of addressing your concerns, the knight pauses almost thoughtfully before his posture straightens. Staring directly down at you, voice still eerily quiet, Specter Knight states, “She hopes this endeavor will enable her to more easily find the person she is searching for.”

A slew of questions erupt within your mind. If this truly did involve you, then what possible reason could the Enchantress - the leader of the _Order of No Quarter_ \- want with someone like you? Did she somehow know you’re from an entirely different world and want to interrogate you to conquer there, too? Maybe because you could read old script? Besides, how could Specter Knight be so sure _you_ were the one she was looking for in the first place—

Your internal ramblings are interrupted by Specter Knight. His voice is so quiet it would be as startling as if he had outright screeched at you. It was...strange, how soft his voice was. 

Without warning your entire world seems to shatter beneath you at the reaper’s next words.

You can no longer pretend and you feel your eyes widen. A cacophony of emotions swells and break free of the dam the void inside you had unknowingly constructed. Tongue feeling leagues too heavy for your mouth, you hold your breath and stutter, “Wh-what did you say…?”

Specter Knight abides by your rash desire and repeats himself with practiced ease.

“She is looking for someone named—”

That’s all you heard before his next word was no longer a mere word; no, it was like sheer, undiluted absolution to hear something so familiar it almost physically _hurt_ when you recognized it as your _own_.

An infinitesimal but painful portion of the void within breaks away, its hunger satisfied now that you’ve managed to return a piece of yourself. To think you had a name now—oh wait. Not like you could freely use it; the _Enchantress_ wanted you. Well, silver lining and all that.

“...so it seems my suspicion paid off.” You shoot a mildly scathing look over at Specter Knight who returns it with his own perpetual stare. An abrupt realization makes its way up your spine like icy tendrils wrapping around your torso.

“You…” Of course he could see how much it affected you; how utterly stupid of you to let down your guard so easily. Here was one of the enforces for the Order, offering this information for some unspecified price, and now his suspicions regarding this mysterious person of interest have been confirmed...He may very well sell you out to the Enchantress.

As if plucking the thoughts straight from your head - were you _really_ that transparent? - Specter Knight states, “I don’t plan on informing _her_.” Ah. Considering how he spat out that reference it seems he harbors some distaste for the Enchantress.

His earlier words come back full force. His need for entertainment, and considering his apparent hatred for her...satisfaction at the Enchantress’s expense, no less. Now _that’s_ some real spite right there.

“Using me to get back at her?”

It takes a hot minute for you to realize you said that out loud and immediately regret it. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out it must have also riled up Specter Knight too, given how quickly his visor snapped back up to your face and how taut his posture was now. Good.

Trying to rectify your mistake, you open your mouth only to shut it before anything worthwhile can escape. You try again only to continue gaping like a fish trapped on land, struggling for breath. The fact Specter Knight maintains his stiff posture but is otherwise still doesn’t ease your fears of becoming a corpse in the nearby future.

Instead, he tips his head forward in an abrupt if not intimidating motion. “ _Go on_ ,” his low voice hisses the command you’d rather not follow, “Tell me what _else_ is on your mind.”

So there’s a threat underlining his words somewhere. And yet again you realize your face is exposed for him to see all your facial theatrics, such as gaping like a fool. _Good_.

Throwing caution to wind and hoping things will turn out like they have the past couple of times Specter Knight confronted you, your brows furrow thoughtfully. Your mind is abuzz with activity as you rapidly piece together all the various pieces of the puzzle that is Specter Knight, all taken from his various cryptic remarks. When most of the picture finally comes into view, you nearly curse your stupidity for not seeing it sooner—

“‘A victim of circumstances,’ right?” It’s not so much as question as it is an accusation.

The reaper merely remains silent and continues watching you from his wall. 

Of course! Everything almost slid together perfectly when you think back on everything he’s alluded to, in one way or another. His irrational anger when it came to Plague Knight’s traitorous machinations. His comments regarding how such upset within the Order would undo all his work. And to top it all off, his open resentment of the one in control of them all, even going so far as to use you to indirectly sabotage her...

You barely manage to restrain the smirk when your lips quirk upwards. To say it was incredibly satisfying to have some semblance of understanding regarding the ever-mysterious reaper would be a severe disservice. And if you were truly worth more to him alive than dead in his little game of payback...you should just play your entire deck to secure _your_ worth in _his_ eyes. After all, a foolish pawn is no better to have around than having none at all.

“Let me guess,” you begin, but the humble words are likely overshadowed by your smug tone, “You were the one responsible for creating the Order at the Enchantress’s behest.” You watch with a dull sense of satisfaction as his head lowers as if in subjugation. Taking it as your cue to continue, you do so. “And if my assumptions are correct, you couldn’t refuse.”

There’s a brief silence between you two before Specter Knight’s gravelly voice shatters it. “Interesting.” He scoffs again before snidely commenting, “How astute you apprentice under a nosy interloper when you are one yourself.”

You almost want to correct him by informing that Plague Knight prefers his secrecy - either intentional or not - but decide against it. If anything, the reaper’s probably right if the kind of nosiness he’s referring to is the manipulative type. In other words, you only care when the situation can benefit you. After a second of shallow introspection, you find yourself agreeing with his harsh words and readily accept them.

Draak and Styx briefly flash into your mind and suddenly the words hurt just a bit more. You shove them away without thought.

You flinch as Specter Knight shifts until he is no longer leaning against the wall, instead grabbing his scythe in his hands and holding it aloft. Yet his stature is lax and the fact flushes the adrenaline from your system, but you watch him warily regardless. 

“I’ve spent too long here already,” the knight informs you. He continues staring at you from the inky shadows behind his visor, unseen winds beginning to pick up his mantle and robes. Just as his body contorts as it always does when he teleports, his guttural voice warns you, “I suggest you keep your anonymity, _minion_.” 

And with that last biting sarcastic remark, Specter Knight takes his leave, folding in on himself until he’s completely gone.

You know you will be seeing the reaper again, either sooner or later. Curiosity and a powerful sense of spite was clearly puppeting him around much like you, and as it was you both had many unanswered questions. Surely he was curious as to why the Enchantress sought you out, and learning - _remembering_ \- your name didn’t exactly answer why your essence was so distorted, for lack of a better term.

But in the meantime this was enough.

If you were being completely honest, you actually found yourself _anticipating_ the reaper’s next arrival. You nearly laugh at the prospect; how the knight began by nearly killing you and now, here he was, demanding you play your part in his personal scheme. Ironic, but welcome all the same.

For now, you had your place and the time to research on your own. Even if you were important to more than a single entity, your loyalty to that lunatic of an alchemist provided the means to which you could eventually have your answers, one way or another. It was just a matter of time at this point.

So you simply return to your plans before they were so rudely interrupted. You clasp your mask onto your face and secure it to the inside of your hood, and after replacing your book into the bag of you possessions - better safe than sorry - you take your leave.

**—**

Nothing much occured after the whole ‘getting ambushed by a creepy reaper in the privacy of your stolen room’ at the Armor Outpost. If anything, once it was firmly established that Plague Knight’s hold on the place was basically ensured, said knight told you to return to the Potionarium at your earliest opportunity. Unfortunately, this meant you spent a grand total of only a couple days at the place, relaxing away with your friends.

Double unfortunately, you were to return to the lab alone as Draak and Styx were told to remain at the outpost to defend it. While it certainly sucked to be torn away from your companions - a fact they too shared, heartwarmingly enough - you were sort of glad for the makeshift privacy. After all, you had plenty to think over, and the loss of your friend’s prying eyes was a welcome one.

After a short farewell, you had reunited with the thrill of bursting across the landscape with nary a concern. Sure, the Enchantress may be looking for you and sure, Specter Knight was also a threat because he was a creep who apparently watched you, but your anonymity was firmly in place and you were worth more to the reaper alive than dead, so...all in all, you were safe.

Well, for the time being, anyway. You _were_ returning the to Potionarium with the specific intention to further aid Plague Knight and Mona with old script alchemical recipes.

But for now, vaulting across the landscape, you wouldn’t waste a second thinking about all the explosions and fits of maniacal laughter which you somehow missed. Nope; for now, you’d just sail through the air and relish the feel of the wind brushing past your robes.

The blocky objects strapped to the inside of your robes slap against your waist when you momentarily ground yourself, but they’re the only things you decided were worth it to bring along. While trusting Draak and Styx with the rest of your belongings back at the outpost, you wanted _something_ to do when you weren’t catering to Plague Knight or Mona’s every whim. Plus, reading was sure to keep your mind sharp and focused.

It only takes your the better part of an hour to arrive back at the lab. Without attracting the attention of any nearby knights - there was a surprising amount patrolling now - you manage to use one of the many hidden passageways which did not require transmutations to bypass. While the art was certainly interesting if not captivating, sitting still and working with only your hands reminded you far too much of your previous occupation. 

Pocketing your burst potion so you wouldn’t accidentally set it off and cause some unknown explosive reaction, you wander through the stoney halls of the aqueducts. It takes a few minutes to finally make your way through the maze-like tunnel system, and the sight of the boiler room is a welcome one.

You walk in expecting to see the familiar green-skinned woman but instead find Mona’s not anywhere in the room. Surprised if a little unsettled - she hardly _ever_ left the Dynamo Decanter alone - you wonder if you should wait or just ignore her apparent summons in favor of returning to nap in your room. 

Soon after you entertain the latter option you feel the room begin to shudder. When the abrupt fluctuations don’t immediately cease you rapidly dive under a nearby table and curl into yourself. Content with the fact you’ve found some cover, you’re fully prepared to wait the relatively tame earthquake out. Idly, you hope the incessant rumbling won’t set off your burst potion.

It takes only another second before you can only watch in a daze as the floor rises in segments built upon wooden pillars before rising to the ceiling. After a brief moment, the ceiling itself beings collapsing The wooden pillars tremor slightly before descending into the floor, all the while spinning rapidly. You’re glad your mask hides how your mouth openly gapes as you watch Mona descend on one of the platforms, her cape twirling in time with the force of the mechanisms spins.

Despite the fact she should be dizzier than a drunk taking a sobriety test, the green-skinned woman steps away once the platforms have descended back into the floor. You hear her curse under her breath and nearly bump your head underneath the table in your surprise. 

You make to leave your cover and instead feel a wave of mortification wash over you when Mona’s eyes find their way to you. She says nothing but the single raised brow and unimpressed face speak volumes.

“Uh.” Great. You deserve an award for all the times you’ve failed to properly defend yourself.

Scampering from underneath the small table and dusting off your robes, you can’t help but continue trying to alleviate the hot shame crawling up the back of your neck. Incessantly, you rapidly mumble and stutter, “I-I thought that—er, I thought it was, a...an earthquake.”

The fact Mona still looks extremely unimpressed somehow goads on your futile attempt to not seem like the oaf you probably are. Continuing your idiotic spiel while mentally screaming at yourself to just shut the hell up, you add on, “Y’know, like stop, drop and roll—no wait, that’s if you’re on fire—” Fucking _stop_ , “—drop, cover and, uh, hold on…? Yeah…”

Mona simple lowers her brow and instead elects to completely ignore your stunt in favor of straightening her cloak. You continue waiting and resist the urge to fidget in place but fail at that, too. Hesitantly, noticing how her fact readjusts itself into one of frustration matching her earlier exclamation, you pipe up, “Is everything alright…?”

The woman simply glances at you and affirming, “There’re knights _everywhere_. They’re even checking out the juice bar and invading my private quarters up there.” You wince at her snarl but remain stoic as she continues, “It’s making it far more difficult to enter the lab, if I’m being honest.”

You swear you hear her mutter something about the Black Knight selling the underground lab out, but you’re unsure. Does Mona know the guy too…?

You could understand that. What with Plague Knight having successfully taken over the Armor Outpost with no one to challenge him, it makes sense to increase the security around the only other place around, that being the village. Still, it was a bit difficult getting back inside, more than you’d like to admit.

“Anyways,” Mona drawls, frustration gone and replaced with her usual distinterst, “You’re the one who knows old script, right?” 

Slightly relieved at least she can’t recognize you just by your short stature since you spoke, you nod once and await the instructions sure to come. You can’t imagine why Mona would specifically request your presence aside from wanting to work on some more alchemy recipes without Plague Knight, but that would be kinda weird with just you two. It just wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t around trying to kill all _three_ of you.

You watch her eyes scan the room and wonder why she’s being so secretive all of a sudden. Sure, your talent wasn’t really known throughout the other minions with Draak and Styx the only exceptions, but from what you could tell there wasn’t really anything to hide. Regardless, you patiently wait for her to address you.

It doesn’t take long. Mona drops her pensive expression in favor of a more subdued one. You immediately realize something's not right; she was never one to show any sort of weakness, perceived or otherwise. When she firmly plants her eyes toward your mask, you can only wait with baited breath and wonder what’s going on.

Her voice is normal if a bit quiet when she remarks, “I assume Plague Knight didn’t have a problem taking over that outpost?” At your confirming nod, she continues, saying, “And do you know where he is now?”

It takes you a bit to piece together what might be happening here. Was...was Mona concerned for Plague Knight? She was never like this before during your laboratory experiments...What changed?

After a brief moment, you shrug once and shake your head. “He was hanging around the outpost for a bit after the takeover, but I don’t know anymore. Sorry.”

You watch with a subdued sense of fascination as a flurry of emotions whip across the woman’s face so fast you wonder if they were there at all. Instead, she settles for a weary sigh before averting her eyes to her personal shelf.

“How can I call myself his assistant if I don’t even know what he’s doing…” You’re not sure if she meant for you to hear that quiet murmur, so you pretend you didn’t and instead play the fool.

Tilting your mask questioningly, you repeat, “Are you okay?”

Mona simply glances at you before sighing ruefully again. “Yeah, no need to worry.” She takes a moment to wipe away her disconcert before facing you fully again. “Besides, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

You remain silent and wait for her to continue. Another wave of emotions you can’t properly place crosses her face but again it’s too swift for you to make any sense of them. 

“Look,” Mona begins, almost recalcitrantly, “I know we’re not really friends even if we’ve been working together for a bit. You’re still a newbie and probably don’t understand what’s going on around here—” At this she waves a gloved hand around at the machinations of the Dynamo Decanter and its contained essences, “—but I need to know something.”

Her gaze turns stern and you feel like a specimen beneath a microscope under her scrutinizing eyes. You don’t like where this is going.

“What is Plague Knight to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will probably slow because I only have a few more pre-written chapters. 
> 
> Anyways, hooray! Reader has a name now. Still, don't expect any of that [Y/N] stuff. And kudos to those who know what 'microbe' I'm referring to. Hint: It has no hereditary information.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	9. The Betrayer

“Uh,” you start haphazardly, “Isn’t he my superior? Or something?”

Mona disregards your lack of respect and your lack of tact regarding the matter. It’s not like he’s your teacher or anything; you’re just some random amnesiac he picked up off the side of the road because he figured you had a pretty nifty essence to toy around with. Not that you were going to let her in on any of that unless you couldn’t help it, but—

The woman’s harsh eyes don’t remove themselves from your mask. A beat of silence passes before she heaves a small sigh, like she’s speaking to a child or someone who won’t understand what she has to say. Voice similarly unrelenting, she decides to take a different approach and ask, “How much do you know of essences?”

Okay. So maybe you couldn’t avoid the who talk about essences. Maybe you could avoid talking about _your_ essence?

Under her piercing gaze, you can’t help but shift and your subconsciously berate yourself for physically showing your unease. Idly, you wonder why you seem to care so much about being truthful to Mona when, as she mentioned, you certainly weren’t close or anything. It hits you like a bucket filled with ice water; while you didn’t really care about her, you cared about her _perception_ of you. 

She was still Plague Knight’s right hand, so to speak, and as a result was also further up the hierarchy compared to your lowly status as a mere minion. While he may have control over everyone else here, Mona was basically just as powerful as him in terms of status and alchemical knowledge. If anything, she was still your superior, no matter how comfortable you grew in both their presences during your experimentations with old script. 

And as your superior, you wanted to prove your worth to her, too.

Then like another bucket filled with ice, you immediately realize how uncouth you’ve been since your arrival. You may be...inept when it comes to social interactions and even beyond, but it still comes as a shock when you realize the hierarchy has been challenged because of your presence. Really, how could it have _not_ been when you factor in Plague Knight’s apparent interest in you?

Actions speak louder than words, and while you know next to nothing about your boss, he has apparently placed much of his faith in you, regardless of your status. 

When you proved adept at bursting, he immediately requested you to scout another member of the Order’s territory. Even if the action was short-sighted on both your parts - his command and your inexperience - it was a leap of faith and you didn’t even pause to ask ‘how high’.

Sure, you may have only survived because Plague Knight was there to fend off Specter Knight and sure, he only cared because you were a precious ingredient in his research, but you were undeniable worth _much_ in the alchemist’s eyes. And with your apparent survival against the reaper, you had unknowingly instilled a sense of not only loyalty, but also _trust_. In his eyes, you were a lowly minion who managed to stand against the reaper and _survive_.

Because you had proven yourself adaptable to a variety of unknown situations - he had to have accounted for your amnesia - he _trusted_ you to carry out at least a small fraction of his desires. He trusted you to guard his home turf of the Explodatorium against Shovel Knight, and while the cerulean-clad man had easily bested you, you unknowingly bestowed another gift to the alchemist in your apparent ability to read a long-forgotten alphabet. 

Even after your defeat and failure to defend his main lab against the intruder, Plague Knight still trusted you enough to accompany and aid in his take over of the Armor Outpost. And yet again, you had proven your capability and loyalty by forcing the Black Knight, who intended to halt Plague Knight’s endeavor, to retreat without even having to chance to do what he set out for.

Every single thing you’ve done thus far has probably only allowed you to climb upward into Plague Knight’s good graces. When coupled with your intrinsic worth due to your essence and ability to read old script…

...was Mona feeling threatened by you…?

No; that’s not quite it. When you factor in her prior muttering and, if your guess was correct, her worry regarding Plague Knight’s whereabouts...She must be concerned that you know more about him and his travels than she herself does. Even in your poor understanding of another’s feelings, placing yourself in her shoes you realize you would feel left out, for lack of better term. Lonely. Disregarded. _Worthless_.

But, you internally rationalize, she has absolutely nothing to worry about. 

You don’t know Plague Knight like Mona presumably does. Your knowledge pertaining to alchemy is a drop compared to Mona’s ocean. The only possible thing you have which Mona may not is your adaptability to combat situations as a result of your bursting, which should be considered a _good_ thing to her. 

If she wasn’t well-versed in combat it mostly likely indicated Plague Knight believed her too precious to potentially waste if such a situation presented itself. Not like you, or Draak, or even Styx; you were the minions for whom the phrase ‘ride or die’ applied to. Expendable, even if you had your talents, your worth.

Really, you should be asking what _she_ is to Plague Knight.

But you don’t. Instead, you simply opt to reply to her earlier inquiry with a solid, “I’ve read some stuff and tried to ask Plague Knight about it.” After a second for her to deliberate your words, you add on, “I know the basics, at least.”

Mona hums thoughtfully and stares at you for a moment longer. Her dark eyes gain a calculating gleam to them and you believe her mind to be doing somersaults in the same way yours had. A thick tension wraps around you two and, while tired from Specter Knight’s chat and all the discovering you did whilst reading, the apprehension you feel keeps you firmly rooted. Really, you just want to leave, maybe take a quick shower and maybe catch a quick nap before dinner.

Finally Mona breaks the silence and uncomfortable atmosphere alongside it. “Care to tell me what’s so special about your essence, then?”

You’d really enjoy it if a single day passed when you _weren’t_ being hassled.

Biting the inside of your cheek and inwardly cursing your unlucky circumstances, you fall back to the plan which has both worked and failed spectacularly in the past: play the fool. 

Quizzically, you tilt your head and try to emanate an aura of confusion. Saturating your voice similarly, you ask, “What about my essence?” 

All in all, it should make perfect sense; while she must’ve known Plague Knight took some of your essence after the whole kerfuffle at the Lich Yard, _you_ never found out, at least in their eyes. And you never would have unless a certain reaper decided to spill the beans, but they didn’t need to know about that.

Mona’s brows raise almost angrily and you find yourself internally wincing; even if she didn’t appear capable at combat she was still a statue of a woman, easily taller than you by well over a foot. If she really wanted to, all she would need to flatten you out is a good, solid punch to your face or throat. Your eyes find themselves glancing down at her gloved fists and hope she can’t smell the fear coming off you.

The woman then seems to realize your position and sighs again. Giving you a disinterested if wary look, she admits, “Look, after your fight with Specter Knight—” Here to insert the smallest of winces in adherence to your act, “—when you were unconscious, Plague Knight took a...sample of your essence.”

Mona’s carefully watching your reaction and you’re unsure of what to do in this particular case. Yes, you were violated in some manner, but in truth you didn’t really care since your essence is what makes you important in Plague Knight’s eyes. But then you realize if Mona is as talented in alchemy as he is, and if she’s seen your essence and understood - which was probably _why_ she caused this discussion in the first place - then there’s nothing to hide.

“Oh.” You state blithely and decide to explain, “Right. My friend told me he likes to take some of the minion’s essences for testing sometimes.” Then a thought strikes you and suddenly the act falls away into genuine curiosity as you ask, voice dipped in subdued horror, “Was something wrong with it?” 

You already knew _something_ wasn’t right about your essence from your observations that one time in comparison to the ones trapped in the Dynamo Decanter, but you wanted to know _what_.

Briefly, the visceral image of distorted, screaming faces made of swirling black and red surface unbidden in your mind. You can’t help but gaze at the similar swirling masses trapped in the massive holding container; all five are undeniably gorgeous, twinkling and shining as if the only star alit in a nighttime sky. Staring too long at them doesn’t result in unease nor an encroaching madness. You find yourself jealous.

Surely your… _odd_ essence isn’t merely the result of working in that lab? 

Mona recaptures your attention by twisting her lips into a grimace. You can’t place the look encapsulated in her eyes, but you know it’s nothing good. “Well,” she starts almost hesitantly, “There were a...few things of concern.”

You resist the urge to snort. Can’t blow your cover.

Instead you shift in place; legs were starting to ache from not moving. The woman probably takes your motion as one of discomfort, which suits you just fine. But you know there’s no sympathy tinting her harsh gaze as she says, “Regardless, something doesn’t add up about you.”

...hm. Well, okay then. Great. Looks like this conversation won’t be ending anytime soon.

Belatedly, you wince and curl in on yourself at the sharpness in her tone. It comes as a slight shock when you realize the motion isn’t so much of an act as it is just you feeling bad. You know you’ve been playing dumb since you met Plague Knight, and maybe you’ve been manipulating others to keep them away from your personal business, but there’s still something wrong with the whole picture you haven’t accounted for. Why else would Mona be so hostile?

Deciding this conversation has gone on long enough - you’re probably wasting her time - Mona decides beating around the bush is no longer convenient. Bluntly, she narrows her eyes in distaste and states, “Your essence is unusually powerful. I want to know _why_ you’ve been playing us for fools this entire time.”

Oh. _Oh_. She doesn’t know.

You suddenly feel so small beneath Mona’s angry eyes and fidget in place. You realize she may interpret your apparent unease as proof of your arrogance, but really you’re just wondering how she’ll react to the truth. If anything, you know she has every right to be distrustful of you since it’s been forever since they saw your essence, but what brought it on now of all times? Why not confront you back when you didn’t have to risk you place beside her and Plague Knight?

Her harsh words and even harsher attitude bring to mind a certain reaper. The comparison makes you cringe further.

“Uhhh,” you drawl stupidly, “I don’t...know…?” God, you _sucked_.

The brief flash of indignation in Mona’s eyes makes you flinch into yourself. Warning yourself against angering the very powerful alchemist, whose specialty is _bombs_ , you hastily attempt to amend your blathering. “I, I—just, I don’t know, I swear! I don’t…oooh, this is stupid.”

Again, you realize you said that last part out loud and hunch your shoulders in some flimsy attempt to ward of Mona’s wrath. Not wanting to see the look on her face, you avert your eyes down at your feet and spit out, “I thought he told you…”

After a moment of brief silence you risk a peek up at Mona’s face and instead find an undiluted confusion there. Her eyes never lose than hidden fury but for now she was more concerned with the fact there was apparently something Plague Knight didn’t tell her. “What do you mean?”

“I—I’m sorry for assuming,” you say, confusion tinting your own voice, “I thought you and Plague Knight were so close he would’ve...I dunno, told you about—” _My amnesia? My idiocy? My problems?_ “—my, uh, recruitment issues.”

Mona raises a single brow. “‘Recruitment issues’.”

You recall Styx and Draak’s stories of how they became Plague Knight’s minions and realize Mona must’ve heard a range of tales. You hope yours isn’t too out of the ordinary but you somehow doubt it.

You nod once as she sighs. The woman looks completely irked as she gives a side-glance to the floating orbs suspended in the Dynamo Decanter. Clearly, she was going to have words with Plague Knight once he showed his face, metaphorically speaking, to her again. For a split second you feel bad but ignore it; not really your problem.

You want to get this over with, preferably so you can just get some rest. “I don’t—er, I have…” This shouldn’t be that difficult to admit since it was technically a lie at this point, but somehow you choke on the word. Mona goads you on with her stoic gaze and you eventually spit out, “I don’t remember anything.”

There. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you tally down six. Six people knew now.

A beat passes with nothing but the idle hum of the Dynamo Decanter in the background. Strangely enough, it reminds you of that lab you used to work at, but you don’t care to compare further; you were happy here.

“Amnesia.” At Mona’s quizzical if not outright look of clear disbelief, you merely nod once and bite the inside of your cheek. 

Again, you find yourself stricken by the outcome of this interrogation; Plague Knight hadn’t informed Mona. He had kept your secret as just that. It was...strangely considerate of him, _if_ it was intentional. You try to rationalize why he’d keep it away from Mona, who didn’t really seem to type to spread gossip in the first place, and come up empty. Either he forgot, didn’t care enough, or was actually considerate to your plight. Not that it mattered.

Well, not to you anyway. From the looks of it, Mona seems to be taking it kinda hard. You place yourself in her shoes before quickly removing yourself; empathy is certainly not your strong suit, but even you can imagine the slight but all the same present betrayal. 

To be left out of the loop when it came to someone who worked directly alongside you...

Feeling the need to at least try and comfort Mona and explain both your and Plague Knight’s possible intentions, you tell her the basics of everything. You tell her how you woke up with no recollections nor a name to call yourself. You tell her how when you ran into Plague Knight, it didn’t even faze you because you didn’t know who he was, not really. You tell her you wanted a place, a purpose and he offered you those things without really knowing it.

It may seem like you’re just another ass-kissing minion but you speak the truth. You can only hope she believes it.

“I just...I want to be _worth_ something. That’s all.” You finish and clench your gloved hands, a strange regret welling deep inside. You’re not sure if you regret being honest about your true feelings or regret the fact you allowed someone to glimpse at your weakness. The void within curls in unease, regardless.

You’re both miffed and undeniably glad Mona doesn’t offer you any form of sympathy or pity, instead opting for a cool indifference. But her mask fades away into one of thoughtfulness before even that gives way to _her_ regret.

As if mentioning the weather, Mona turns away from you and says, “Then make a name for yourself.” Met with your confused silence, the woman elaborates, “Look, I know you’re smarter than you look; hell, most of the minions are dumb as rocks. And you try to blend in for some reason.”

Mona turns back around and plants another baleful glare at you. “I don’t get it. You’ve got the capability to _work_ and make something of yourself, but you _don’t_.”

The woman takes a moment to collect herself, heaving a small sigh in the process. Her eyes drift away from your mask as she admits, “It pisses me off. I’ve had to work hard just to get where I am today, to know what I do now. If _you’d_ just apply yourself, you could do the same. Instead you just undersell yourself to others. If I’m being honest, it’s a waste of talent.” 

Mona levels a last stoic look at the Dynamo Decanter and the essences held within. “You don’t need to rely on anyone else’s approval to achieve something for yourself.”

For some reason, you feel as if the words aren’t directed at you. You say nothing.

Turning back to you, Mona eases her harsh stare in favor of her usual disinterested expression. The tension in the boiler room diminishes until it’s no longer palpable. 

“Just...try a little harder,” the woman comments, easing her fists to unclench and rest at her hips. “And keep Plague Knight from blowing himself and us up when experimenting. It’d be much appreciated.”

Clearly you won’t be getting any answers. But this is enough for now. 

Confirmation is better than nothing.

You grin under your mask and Mona unknowingly returns it with a small weary smirk of her own. You simply shoot her a thumbs up and agree before she excuses you, much to your hidden glee.

As you make your way back to your room, the warm fuzzy feelings from that heart-to-heart begin to melt away until the ugly void inside you surfaces. While it had been nice to peek out from your perpetual hiding and reveal yourself, there’s a fallacy in Mona’s speech of encouragement: you _had_ to rely on someone else’s approval to have any semblance of worth.

Someone who doesn’t even know who they are cannot validate their own existence. They can try all they want, make new memories or make a new name for themselves, but that hollowness inside will always be there, searching, waiting, _wanting_.

You’re beginning to grow impatient.

**—**

A few days pass in relative peace. Aside from all the knights heavily patrolling around and sometimes inside the village, nothing of note seemed to happen. While you may not have been trying to keep up with the newest intel, instead finding yourself grappling with all the information both Mona and Specter Knight had given you, it comes as a welcome distraction when Plague Knight returns.

Even stranger is the man who returns alongside the tiny alchemist.

You think of him more like a bear than an actual human, and you believe him to be ill-suited to the intellectually-based environment the Potionarium is, but other than that he seems nice enough. Why else would he secretly snatch a batch of health tonics from the Magicist when she wasn’t looking and hand them off to a keen Plague Knight, free of charge? If anything, the man’s desire to help out the alchemist reminded you of your own situation.

Of course that doesn’t mean you necessarily enjoy his presence. Hell, you didn’t care enough to learn his name after, in a fit of arrogance, he boldly exclaimed that most of the minions were dumb as dirt. While you may be many things of poor respite, you were _certainly_ not stupid. In the traditional sense, anyway. 

If anything, it seems Plague Knight also regrets recruiting him, if the alchemist’s mutterings are anything to go by. You’ve found yourself catching the tail end of his scathing comments after speaking with the sufficiently larger man. 

Also, hey! You’re not the newest recruit anymore! That’s cool.

Still you try your damndest to ignore the giant of a man - who, by the way, looks both ridiculous and hideous in the minion robes - whenever you accost Percy or the Magicist for alchemy ingredients. Petty grudges to be held, dangerous potions to concoct; it’s been your life for the past few days.

After reading about the kingdom preceding Pridemoor, you’ve discovered a sort of soft spot for history and what it can offer. Mainly in alchemy, of course. So in your free time you’ve dived into your volume of old script recipes, figuring there might be a few relating back to that nameless kingdom’s time and hopefully, it’s technology. Even if you weren’t an engineer by any means, advanced technology _did_ remind you of your original world. Sentimental, really.

Even now you find yourself hunched over _Theory and History of Ancient Alchemy_ , clad in all your chemical-coated robes and mask firmly covering your face. A few precious components rest on your desk, just waiting to be tampered with. Also, they were stupid expensive; so expensive all those jewels you collected while searching for the chivalrous hermit had been used up buying them from the Magicist. Something or other about her supplies running low. 

But after mindlessly flipping through a multitude of recipes, you’ve narrowed down your results into something far more manageable. Although slightly rarer than their counterparts, there was a selection of recipes which did not use a single array during the procedure. In this particular section, you found not only a set of guidelines for how to make the stuff, but also what it was primarily used for.

Looking through the short but informative introductory background of the substance, you’re positive this was this world’s equivalent of rocket fuel, or at the very least something very similar. Though the alchemy terms for the substances were slightly annoying to deal with, coupled with you recent recipes for abnormally powerful bombs, you knew the stuff was basically interchangeable.

Considering most bombs were smaller, more controlled reactions of those found to activate rocket fuel…you could very well repurpose the recipe into making a bomb instead of its intended use as a fuel for airships.

You just hoped you wouldn’t destroy your dorm nor anything else in the lab with your tinkering.

Thankfully - and if you thought about it, concernedly - there was basically only three key ingredients needed to produce a powerful bomb: a fuel, an oxidizer, and a catalyst. You glance over at the small vials resting besides your book. Although labeled in the new script you still couldn’t read, you remembered to organize them in such a way it didn’t matter.

Ground power of pale yellow-green color is _antimony_. Fine white powder is _saltpeter_ , the oxidizer. Bright yellow liquid is, ironically enough, _brimstone_. You peek at the procedure and realize it’s actually _milk of brimstone_. Eh, same difference. 

In the quiet of the afternoon hours, you get to work. 

You quickly realize alchemichal recipes take a lot more time and diligence compared to those actively using arrays to stabilize the components. You estimate it’s roughly two-ish hours after you began when you finally, with admittedly shaking hands, transfer your semi-golden liquid into the glass bomb casing. Once fully transferred you cap off the new bomb with an impact fuse and take a second to admire your work.

It’s your first time doing alchemy by yourself and it feels pretty damn good.

Carefully, you nestle your bomb into the only drawer of your desk and surround it with your old beggar garments for additional cushion. Content with the fact it probably won’t accidentally blow up and kill you in the process, your eyes trail over your desk and you heave a small sigh.

Although it was all in all a very simple procedure, the fact is was tedious still left a sour taste in your mouth. It was basically like doing a titration, except if you had failed to spot the immediate change then you might have blown yourself up so thoroughly your robes wouldn’t have been able to reliably protect you. 

Wrinkling your nose, you pick up all the equipment you borrowed from Mona. You approach your door with the intention to leave but before you can grasp the handle it flies open.

You can’t help the startled squawk as you jump back, fumbling to not drop all the tools in your arms. Once you’ve secured all the clamps and stand, you return your attention to the tiny alchemist squawking at you in kind.

“Minion!” Plague Knight screeches, “What are you doing? You were supposed to help me prepare for today’s class!”

“Uh,” you muster through all your confusion. “I...was?”

No one told you anything about that. Then again, not like you really left your room other than to get some food or supplies for your little experiments; you kinda relied on Draak or Styx for the latest news.

“Yes, you bumbling oaf! Now hurry up and don’t keep me wait—” His shrill voice trails off mid-sentence. A moment of silence passes before his mask looks at all the supplies cradled in your arms. Another beat passes and he steps aside to glance at your desk behind you, likely taking in the fact you’ve been experimenting with old script recipes yourself.

Plague Knight hums thoughtfully before striding past you and actually sorting through the empty vials and flasks on your desk. It takes you a bit to feel how much of your privacy the guy’s violating and you can’t help but choke out a flustered, “Excuse me…?”

He ignores you in favor of picking up and reading the labels on all the empty containers, murmuring to himself all the while. He even has the audacity to begin flipping through your book to all the pages you marked via folding over their corners. The last straw of your sheepishness was when he huffed in discontentment and made to open your drawer.

“H-Hey!” You exclaim and rush to his side. Before he can accidentally find your newest creation and set it off ‘for science,’ you hastily shove yourself against the desk and haphazardly throw your borrowed goods onto the table. Without waiting to see his reaction, you shut the drawer with more force than necessary.

With another startled squawk, Plague Knight turns his mask back at you in what feels like indignation. “What? You’ve obviously been experimenting and I want to see the products!”

Wishing your boss didn’t sound like a crazed druggie going through withdrawal, you keep a hand on the drawer and hold up your other defensively. Don’t want to - _heh_ \- set him off. 

“Look,” you say in what you believe to be a stern if not authoritarian voice, “I don’t know how powerful this bomb is since I haven’t tested it. And I would prefer you _not_ mess with it until its strength can be tested in a _safe_ environment.” You keep hidden the fact this bomb may very well be able to blow up both you and him, since it would only exaggerate his curiosity. 

The face Plague Knight remains silent through your little speech doesn’t bode well. Either he’s heavily scrutinizing you and your abuse of acting superior given your minion status, or he’s not listening at all and thinking of ways to see your newest success. Hoping it’s the latter, you pretend you’re just following the standard warnings and quickly add, “The recipe says it’s pretty dangerous, so...yeah.”

Your little plan succeeds when Plague Knight simply huffs and turns to leave. 

“I suppose I’ll just have to - _hee hee_ \- see it for myself another time.” He glances at you one last time before jabbing his finger at the book resting benignly on your desk. “But we _will_ be using that book for our little experiments sooner or later!”

With him gleefully murmuring under his breath, “Oh, what fun, _hee hee hee_ …!” Plague Knight takes his leave and hurries out of your sight. 

Sighing, you begin picking up all of the equipment you used. Just as you’re ready to leave and return the various pieces to Mona, more scurrying footsteps echo in the hall. They grow louder until you once again meet the familiar face of Plague Knight, peeking around the corner of your open doorway.

“Oh drat! I almost forgot—” 

You expect him to say something, but all that comes from his bird-like mask is utter silence. If anything, you resist the urge to squirm under what you perceive as a scrutinizing stare. You’ve been the recipient of far too many of those as of late, thank you very much.

The silence spans for several seconds before Plague Knight’s mask tilts down and a small sigh sounds. You don’t know him well enough to even guess what he’s feeling, but know enough that’s it’s a bit unusual. But the motion doesn’t last long and he perks back up almost instantly.

“...don’t forget about the class, minion!” And he scurries out of sight exactly like before. You notice how quiet his footfalls are and wonder if he could give Specter Knight a run for his money. The tiny alchemist was a sneaky dude, that was for certain.

While you had a, pfft, _sneaking_ suspicion Plague Knight wasn’t going to say that, you figured if he didn’t press it, it probably didn’t matter too much. Like with most things, it wasn’t any of your business.

A quick deposit of your borrowed goods and walk alongside Mona later, you find yourself back in the auditorium.

Automatically, you make your way to the back corner where you usually sit only to find fingers winding themselves into your robes. A bit curious but mostly annoyed, you glance behind you only to meet the expectant stare of Plague Knight.

“No, no, no,” he releases his grip and instead idly taps his foot. “ _You_ will be helping with the presentation since you failed to do your _original_ job.”

You peek back at the rows of the auditorium and internally wince as you see a multitude of other minions, prepping for the latest session. While you weren’t necessarily comfortable working in front of others - especially a crowd - you didn’t really have a debilitating case of stage fright. As if trying to ease your anxiety, you tell yourself there’s still a relatively large chunk of minions still stationed away at the outpost, alluded to by the range of empty seats.

If anything, you mentally tack on, this’ll be just like when you’re working alongside Plague Knight and Mona when it came to old script recipes. 

So you wait with bated breath as the last dregs of minions saunter in and seat themselves. Once satisfied most of them have shown up, Plague Knight begins the seminar by introducing the topic of discussion today: burst potions.

Apparently, burst potions were his first topic as it was imperative those who wished to practice alchemy be able to avoid confrontation or, as it was with you, have some semblance of protection. Either way, bursts were widely considered preliminary information and as a result, he should go over them once so often so as to force his minions to remember the basics.

You kind of wish you were able to take notes, but then you realize you really can’t. Sure, you may be standing off to the side along with Mona waiting for instructions, but you also kind of depended on Styx to provide you with ink and paper since - for some goddamn reason - they weren’t readily available in either Percy or the Magicist’s goods. At least it was understandable in the latter’s case, but you’re pretty certain the horse is hoarding all the stuff to himself.

Regardless, you continue standing besides Mona and ignoring the curious glances of the other minions. You didn’t really know any of them and beyond that you didn’t really care to. 

After introducing the concepts of burst potions - basically repurposed bombs with particular enchantments placed over them - Plague Knight calls you and Mona over. As you trail behind the taller woman your eyes are drawn to the subtle shine resting atop the teaching bench. Like last time, a small but sizable pile of cipher coins sit, metallic gleam tinted green but still oddly pretty.

You’re unsurprised when Plague Knight requests Mona transform them into burst potions; or at least most of them. He also asks her to leave one as mere components for another demonstration to which she returns her trademark smirk. 

And just like last time, you find yourself slightly giddy when she weaves the barrage of cipher coins together in a subtle whirlwind before they shatter into a slew of unique burst potions. Well, aside from the few raw ingredients sitting alongside the glass bottles. 

You resist the urge to sigh. Well, maybe today you could prevent Plague Knight from blowing everything up…?

Plague Knight goes through the few completed burst potions and even demonstrates their abilities. One, upon immediately bursting, results in a pink cloud which then shoots a concentrated mass of pink like a bullet. The other potion results in a steady rain of snowflakes as he saids through the air which, surprisingly, damage anything they come into contact with. Something about damaging magic and concentrated explosives. 

After the demonstrations, Plague Knight answered a few of the minion’s lingering questions. When one of them again asked what cipher coins were made of - can’t be too sure if it was the same one as last time - the knight didn’t seem to care and answered it with zeal. But unlike last time, he added a small addendum.

“While it’s assumed cipher coins are in part made from solidified magic, there is some credence to the idea,” Plague Knight begins, clearly enjoying his talk of scientific method. He reaches into his personal satchel and flourishes a single green coin. “Besides the fact magic can explain why these beauties can be repurposed into anything with physical properties, it also ties in with the instability of magic itself.”

‘Instability of magic’...? You perk up instantly; since when was magic considered unstable?

The tiny alchemist goes on to explain via reciprocal questioning, “Have you ever wondered why we use so many arrays during our alchemy? For transmutations and stabilities, even enchantments? Well, of course you have! Unless you were duller than a lump, _heh_.” His reedy voice trails off with that last bit and you purse your lips. 

Holding up the single cipher coin, Plague Knight giggles, “ _Hee hee_...yes, the reason for that is simple. Magic, in its pure form, is intangible and as a result, we cannot properly utilize it for our own ends. Yet once we apply an array which we _can_ control, there's no problem! This is because it serves as a channel for magic.”

He cackles under his breath and looks up at the coin held aloft in his grip. “Simplified, magic requires something tangible if not solid to adhere to, or else it becomes unusable.” So it served to act as a catalyst for potential reactions; basically an enzyme. 

“Furthering that theory...Mona,” he turns to the aforementioned woman and asks, “What would occur if you _hadn’t_ used the unknown present in those cipher coins?”

She simply crosses her arms and reaffirms, “Just stuck to all the mixed ores?” At Plague Knight’s single nod, she answers, “Couldn’t make anything much. I’d need another catalyst or a whole lot of time. Not to mention it’d be a waste; the unknown would just dissipate with nothing binding it anymore.”

At Plague Knight’s appraising look - it at least felt like one - he nods again and turns back to the auditorium. “Thus are the reasons and theories why it’s assumed cipher coins contain at least some semblance of solidified magic. But, considering not many laws have been published in regards to the fleeting nature of magic, it still remains a theory.”

While he answers a few other questions, you find yourself thinking about the properties of magic. No matter how much you are loathe to admit it, magic was certainly curious if not outright necessary to the art of alchemy. Sure, concocting alchemial recipes without the use of stabilizing arrays would be tedious and absolutely grueling, but it _could_ be done, as your old script book demonstrates. 

But as Plague Knight had mentioned, magic’s nature still remains unknown. Your opinion on the stuff is certainly biased - again, where was the _logic_? - yet it’s properties still grapple your attention. You don’t understand, but you sort of want to. 

...No matter how you want to apply rules and logistics to magic, you couldn’t shake how revolting the stuff seems to you. Sort of like it was the antithesis of everything you stood for. Science? Practical in both study and application. Magic? Yeah right.

It just...didn’t make any _sense_. You _hated_ that. 

You release a slow breath to gather your bearings. You’re not sure when you lost them, but the erratic pace your heart is set to inside your chest and the whirl of disgust you feel tell you enough. Similarly, you unclench your fists and try to focus on whatever Plague Knight is blabbering about now.

With your mind now occupied with solely listening to the shorter man’s lilting voice, you resume your position beside Mona and await further instructions. 

Minutes pass as Plague Knight continues speaking about the specifics of burst potions and how they are still intrinsically different than bombs. Like, for example, bombs have different concentrations of explosive ingredients compared to bursts since, unlike bursts, bombs are supposed to have enough power to easily disintegrate the glass of its casing, thus preventing accidental shrapnel. Likewise, bursts are not bombs and should never be used as a makeshift one due to the same reason.

You don’t miss the pointed glance of Mona from your peripheral nor how Plague Knight tilts his mask in your general direction. You scowl beneath your mask. If you hadn’t done that, you would’ve been _dead_ a while ago.

Eventually the knight gestures for you and Mona to ready prepping the work bench as he announces he will be making a burst from scratch. Well, he alongside his immediate apprentice and some minion who failed to help set up in the first place. If anything it was blatant punishment and this fact was certainly not lost on the other minions; hell, you could even hear a few in the front snicker to themselves. 

The recipe is something Mona is familiar with, considering it’s one of her own making. In fact, it’s written in her personal notebook which is placed on the table for you three to see. Unfortunately, you still can’t read the current script so you’re shit out of luck.

It doesn’t matter in the long run. Plague Knight details every step and commands you in the same breath, while Mona just works her magic; literally and figuratively. You’re basically reduced to mixing the various powders into the solutions, mechanically whirling them like another stupid titration. The scowl etched into your lips deepen when the irony is not lost on you. A quick glance at the knight and a muted snicker on his part later, you’re positive he’s doing this on purpose.

While not so much an intolerable punishment, it’s still somewhat grating. Of course the tiny knight was surprisingly keen and decided to publically torture you by requesting - _ordering_ \- you to recite some of the inherent properties of the ingredients you’re mixing. 

You do so in a muted manner but he quickly shakes his head, hood bobbing harshly. “No no no, speak loud enough for everyone to hear, _hee hee hee_ …!”

And you thought _you_ were petty.

Your newest memory bubbles to the surface and you look up and meet the sea of magenta, bird-beak masks staring down at you. While their faces are not blurred out into obscurity, they remain faceless individuals regardless and you find a small fraction of comfort in the fact.

Still mixing the golden solution in your hand, you mechanically recite, “ _Saltpeter_ , often used as an oxidizing agent in chemical explosives. One of the most common substances in explosives alongside charcoal and _brimstone_.” At this point you were just reciting tidbits and facts from your latest dabble of bomb-making. “Highly soluble and, when used in conjunction with liquid vitriols, retain their explosive characteristics.”

“Hmm…” Plague Knight hums almost appraisingly. “Thorough and precise. Very good, minion! And what of the solution in your grasp?”

Resisting the urge to grit your teeth in exasperation, you maintain your robotic voice and state, “Golden vitriol, noted to be exceptionally unstable and, as a result, produces the strongest explosives. Enhances the solute’s inherent concussive properties more so than other vitriols, but fails to stabilize them as the others do. Serves as fuel to the oxidizing agents.” 

You had to thank the Alchemeister for that information. During your brief stint as his assistant, he taught you that vitriols were exceptionally odd when it came to their properties. While they had a large proportion of magic imbued - often as a result of being procured from monsters which were malignant magic incarnate or something - they acted as both a stabilizer _and_ enhancer. 

Stabilizer since the stuff was pretty basic—er, alkaline, whereas the inherent magic enhanced _everything_. This proved true even when other soluble things were dissolved into the liquid; _those_ thing’s properties were still maintained because of the magical properties. Hence why the stuff was so popular for producing controllable bombs or explosives. Interesting stuff.

“Stop talking to the table and talk to your fellow minions, minion!” Plague Knight angrily squawks at you. Blinking slowly, you lift your head and resist the urge to sigh; don’t want to make your punishment worse.

Doing as told, you stare at the other minions and automatically go to repeat your words as best you can. You try and imagine them as the same professionals in your memory and it works for a bit until—

It shifts. Everything suddenly shifts.

Instead of finding yourself tucked away in your mind, wearing the standard blindingly white lab coat and presenting to a dozen business-suit clad faceless superiors, everything shifts. 

You’re no longer clad in the familiar - was it familiar? - pristine lab coat, nor are you standing behind a podium you pretend is a shield between you and them. They aren’t sitting at a table and idly scribbling down notes on their clipboards, watching, waiting.

Something hot and stifling and ugly wells within your chest. The void cries out.

Panic strips your mind of all coherency as you stare down a crowd of people, murmuring amongst themselves and their hideously blank faces. You—you don’t know them, but at the same time you do. 

And it _hurts_.

They call out your name and plead; they speak of mercy and forgiveness; they are so, so _sorry_ —

 _Betrayal_. 

Hot and bitter and _ugly_. The void screams.

“—inion!” Something breaks through the visage approaching your cowering form. You try to feebly grasp at it, hoping it will save you. 

“Minion—!” Something wraps around your hands and pries something from your rigid grasp.

With a startle the image fades away and you hastily attempt to recollect yourself. You’re—that’s right, you’re standing in front of the rest of the on-site minions, giving a presentation—no, wait; you’re talking about the chemical properties of something...what was it again?

You stall for a bit and again try to gather your bearings. Glancing around shows Plague Knight holding a familiar flask filled with golden liquid—vitriol. Right. Golden vitriol. And you were supposed to be—oh. 

Still confused but getting there, you look at Mona who appears...slightly concerned? You shrug it off and return your attention to Plague Knight who’s mixing the solution as you were told to. He returns your questioning gaze and immediately chastises you, exclaiming, “Bah! If I’d known you can’t handle public speaking I wouldn’t have you up here! Dismissed; go find a seat.”

You idly nod once and automatically pass behind Mona, making your way up the auditorium’s steps. Once you find yourself in your familiar corner and away from most of the other curious minions, you internally wince and wonder how bad your little...episode looked. You also wonder why Plague Knight’s voice wasn’t harsh like you would’ve expected; more like...exasperated? Maybe even inquisitive?

Sitting silently, you just watch Plague Knight and Mona complete the burst potion, all the while ignoring the other minion’s stares and few passing ones thrown your way by the demonstrators. 

You’re glad the mask hides the wetness caught in your eyes and running down your face.

**—**

You realize it’s unhealthy and perhaps detrimental, but for the most part you ignore the abrupt vision you had in the auditorium. It’s not that you don’t want to think about it and what it means, no; you just...there’s too many things going on and you can only process so much. One thing at a time.

Like right now.

Plague Knight shifts his feet and heaves a small sigh. You glance at Mona but find her back turned to you, organizing her personal shelf of alchemial goods. The Dynamo Decanter hums in the background.

Coughing into his hand, the small knight garners your attention. “Minion, I have been informed you and Mona spoke about essences. While I had already assumed you knowledgeable enough to grasp the potency of this—” The knight waves his staff at the Dynamo Decanter, “—you must understand this be kept secret.”

You nod, mind trailing off the comforting idea of a nice warm shower or a nap. Before you can filter out your whirling thoughts, you mention, “The Black Knight said something about the ‘ultimate potion’.”

Too tired to really care about your apparent indifference, you’re somewhat relieved when Mona openly scoffs at the knight’s name while Plague Knight simply makes a snobbish sound under his breath. You remain silent and shift in place.

The tiny alchemist then asks, unfailingly curious, “And how much do you know…?”

You can’t detect an immediate threat nor one hidden in the one of his voice or the choice of his words. Somewhat reassured by this, you explain yourself as quickly and as a result, as bluntly you can. “I read about them in my book. Asked you some stuff. Then the Black Knight mentioned the ‘ultimate potion’...” You trail off and attempt to find the right words to describe your erratic thoughts.

Settling on a rather innocuous description, you say, “Seems like the ultimate potion will grant you a wish or something.”

Plague Knight hums thoughtfully. “A strange conclusion, but… _heh heh_ , you’re certainly not wrong! But I’m _more_ curious to learn _how_ you figured it out, _hee hee hee_ …!” 

Even if there’s a subtle threat lingering in the air now, you’re still too tired to really give a damn. “Like I said; a combination of reading, asking you questions, and listening to others.” You don’t mention Specter Knight. “I was curious. Still am.” _I want to understand_ goes unsaid.

Your words are stunted and your tone subdued. You hate that you’ve failed to hide how utterly disconcerted you are at the moment, but no matter how hard you try you can’t ignore the feeling of dread, of confusion, of fear laced into your being. There’s too much going on in your mind and you can’t _stop it_ no matter how much you’d like to.

Everything’s easier said than done, after all.

You find yourself peering at Mona’s cloak, eyes catching on to the decorated strips of teal woven into the noticeably heavy fabric. Her words come back to echo in the forefront of your mind. 

_You don’t need to rely on anyone else’s approval to achieve something for yourself_.

Clenching your fists, you take a deep breath and wonder why everything seems so different now. You’ve waited and waited, hoping for the opportunity to readily present itself to you and then what? Like magic, you’d suddenly have all your answers? It doesn’t _work_ like that, just like Mona said.

You’d risen in the ranks, so much that you’ve worked directly in conjunction with both Plague Knight and his personal assistant. You’d proven yourself capable if lucky when engaged in battle, especially in regards to those who’ve already made a name for themselves. You’d become worth something when they discovered your ability to read a long-forgotten alphabet which manifested during the rise of alchemy as a whole.

Yet you gained _nothing_.

Everything you had managed to scrounge up, every morsel of knowledge, of understanding was never outright given to you by those you’re pledged yourself to. Instead you’ve had to lie, to deceive and learn everything by piecing it together yourself. Even the infinitesimal pieces were never offered by them; no, instead the man who had attempted to kill you in short-sighted rage had bestowed upon you everything you’ve sought thus far.

How stupid...how blind you’ve been. You may have worth, you may have a name, you may have unique talents, you may have everything you need to succeed, to become more than another cog in the machine, but...

Instead you’ve found yourself back at square one. You’ve become a fancy gimmick more than anything; a rare part which can still be replaced if needed.

The visage of the faceless but painfully familiar crowd surfaces.

Betrayal.

You clench your teeth and will away the sudden tightness of your throat. You look down at your feet and ignore the voices tittering in the background. You ignore the stare Plague Knight is leveling at you and the words of either praise or scorn for your intuitiveness - a lie - or your secretiveness. You find you don’t really care.

Don’t let them get so close they can hurt you. 

You nearly choke on a mirthless laugh. _Too late_.

A shuddering breath pushes past your teeth. It’s ironic because they don’t even _realize_.

Detached, you watch Mona turn to Plague Knight. “Plague, there’s no reason to be so harsh. Let them learn on their own; they’ve proven capable of independent thought, after all. And we both know how rare that is around here.”

“O-oh, M-Mona, I, er, I just thought—” Plague Knight’s reedy voice stutters and stalls when addressing the woman, attention now torn away from you. His speech continues failing every other breath as he speaks to Mona. Eventually he’s reduced to a flustered mess, twiddling his fingers nervously.

More words are exchanged and their meaning is lost to you. Like the whirr of those machines in that lab, they become props in the background to the rampant thoughts on stage. 

… _make a name for yourself_. Take the opportunity now that it’s presented itself.

“I want to know.” Your voice is quiet with conviction and latent frustration. Plague Knight and Mona are too caught up in their own discussion to hear you.

“I want to know,” you repeat, louder this time. Still their attentions are too wrapped up in one another to pay you even a second glance. 

You hesitate for the briefest of moments and something ugly makes itself known inside your chest.

“I want to _know_.”

Plague Knight and Mona’s voices abrupt cut off, leaving a tense silence to reign over you three. Both turn toward you, Mona with scrutinizing eyes and Plague Knight’s hidden beneath his masks’ lenses. Either way, you have successfully captured— rather, demanded their attention. Now you simply had to demand your answers.

“I want to know,” you state, “What’s wrong with my essence.” _What’s wrong with me_?

They fail to respond immediately and you inwardly curse. Narrowing your eyes, you wonder if you’re ruining your chances to remain by Plague Knight and Mona’s sides. You surprise yourself when you realize it doesn’t matter; all that matters is getting the answers you’ve nearly had since the beginning.

Eventually Plague Knight turns to Mona who blithely replies she told you during your previous discussion. He simply nods once and returns his attention to your quivering form. 

He remains strangely silent and the wait is killing you. Finally he relents, normally lilting voice subdued. “...those questions you asked before—” He trails off before his mask tilts up at you. He laughs but it’s stilted and humorless. “Heh heh. Then you must have realized your _place_.”

You’re reminded of the time when you first met the alchemist. Yes, you know your place.

“I want to know.” Like a broken record you plead for your answers.

Plague Knight and Mona exchange a look. You don’t know what the former is feeling, but judging from the pained expression adorning the latter’s face it wasn’t anything good. Still it must be better than this emptiness welling within.

Finally Plague Knight heaves a heavy sigh. “Your essence is...highly unstable. Even someone of my calibur cannot contain it for long. It’s… _hee hee_ , a beauty, from an alchemist’s perspective.”

He idly waves a hand at the essences trapped within the Dynamo Decanter. “The attributes attached to these are not nearly as - _hee hee_ \- ‘untamed’ as the ones yours bears. The fact your essence is unstable indicates you, by extension, are also highly unstable.” His voice loses it’s subdued cheer in favor of direct scrutiny. “Heh heh heh...I’ve been waiting to see this property manifest itself, and only _now_ are you showing it.”

The reference to your earlier breakdown is not lost on any of you. So that’s why he decided to talk with you in the first place.

Just a fancy gimmick to be controlled, to be used. That’s all you amount to.

Plague Knight continues unperturbed. “Your essence is at war with itself. Guilt, shame, despair… _hee hee hee_...” His laugh is mirthless. “Yet there is an untold amount of malice present, unrestrained and filled with so much _potential_.”

You expect everything would fall into place like a well-oiled machine. It doesn’t.

“Still…” Plague Knight mumbles to himself, “Hmm...yes, how odd indeed…”

You...you don’t understand. Why—

You barely listen to any other words of lingering curiosity from Plague Knight; mercifully, Mona remains silent throughout the whole exchange and merely offers you a stoic expression tinted with sympathy.

Once it’s clear nothing of importance can be added, Plague Knight dismisses you with a wave of his hand. He expects you to continue your duties as a minion and lab partner in deciphering the old script recipes. You nod, feeling as if the weight of the world is settling upon your shoulders.

You so want to believe that everything’s fine the way it is, but you can’t.

The void inside stirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see.
> 
> Currently working my way through chapter 13, but I've been...'busy'. Did I mention _Mario Kart 8 Deluxe_ is super addicting? 
> 
> Anyways, here's some more plot stuff. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> EDIT: Fixed a glaring typo masquerading as an entire sentence.


	10. The Recalcitrant Liar

You sit at your desk, the triad of candles flickering every so often on the wall. A pitiful sniffle echoes faintly in the cobblestone room, but the tears accompanying them have run out long ago. Your mask sits aside, benignly resting besides your books. The passage detailing the blueprints for the bomb you constructed earlier is still open, but your eyes fail to comprehend any of the printed words.

In the back of your mind, you’re thankful neither Draak nor Styx are here to witness how low you’ve fallen. It’s better like this; they don’t deserve to be pulled down alongside you.

The parting words of Plague Knight similarly echo in your head. Your eyes want to water but there’s nothing left to make the tears. Instead another choked gasp escapes from clenched teeth and pursed lips.

 _Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember anything_.

You’ve learned to internally censor the stunted chuckles he had peppered at the beginning and end of that particular comment, but it stings regardless. If you didn’t remember anything, then what did you amount to? What _could_ you amount to? You were just another cog in the machine. No matter how much you strived to be something else, you just _can’t_. Not with the way things are now.

Just a fancy gimmick and nothing else. That’s...that’s what he wanted. 

A mirthless laugh bubbles up your tight throat and struggles for release, but it becomes more of a shuddering breath than anything. 

While you suspected you were an idiot, your most recent stunt surely proves it. How could knowing what was wrong with your essence tell you everything you want to know? You already knew essences are merely an extension of one’s self, an amalgamation of all that which constitutes them. Considering the void resting between your ribs and the senseless feelings writhing there, you already assumed something wasn’t right.

In any case, some serious retrospection was necessary if you were going to figure out anything worthwhile.

You begin by recalling the words Plague Knight had used to describe your essence. Shame, guilt, despair...it made sense, in a twisted way. Perhaps it was the fact you couldn’t bare to exist as you do know, replaceable if not forgettable. Maybe it was due to the sheer dissatisfaction with yourself as a whole; when coupled with the malice also present, it did make sense…

The visage of a crowd dipped in shadows, faces lost in the transition, comes to mind.

No. Those latent feelings...the shame, the guilt, the despair; the visage resonates with those feelings. But then you recall their garbled words, thrown like a blindfold over your similarly cowering form. While the sting of betrayal was fresh, you had felt something else at that moment. 

Yes, you were afraid of their approach, so much so you had been groveling, looking up at their blank faces. Vaguely, you recall your first meeting with Specter Knight and how you had been terrified, and then you recall how far that fear drove you. The smile which had graced your face before you threw down your burst potion—

You had been so, so _angry_.

Angry at your own weakness, angry at the state he had reduced you to, angry you had essentially been sent on a suicide mission...And suddenly the malice tucked away makes perfect sense. 

How _dare_ they interfere—

But you still don’t understand why the crowd affected you so much. They were unrecognizable to your eyes, but the void had told you they were painfully familiar. They knew your _name_.

Therefore they must not be some strange fever dream you had unknowingly conjured up. They were a memory, and one you’d prefer to forget for the sake of your sanity.

You curl in on yourself, slouching into your desk. You...you need to begin pushing others away if you were going to keep getting hurt; keep getting betrayed. Pretending is fine for now, but eventually...

Wiping away the lingering stickiness on your cheeks, you swear to yourself that you will not be used any longer.

Not unless you can similarly gain something.

**—**

Days pass and you adopt a facade to externally deflect from the fact you’re falling apart. Well, more or less too occupied with the fact you don’t really know yourself and that it’s bothering you to hell and back.

You were back in the auditorium, helping Mona prep for another old script recipe and chatting idly amongst yourselves. If anything, you’re secretly glad that neither her nor Plague Knight really brought up your little...episode and instead went on like nothing ever transpired between you three. If anything, you were being treated more like an equal than you were before. It’s both nice and...oddly disgruntling. You just blame your paranoia for thinking they’re just manipulating you for their own ends.

Words abruptly fail when a too-close-for-comfort _boom_ sounds at the entryway. Startled but not enough to drop the flask of golden vitriol - the stuff was pretty expensive - you slowly place it on the bench before whirling around and seeing the last dregs of green flames lick away from Plague Knight. 

The tiny alchemist notices both your and Mona’s stares, her’s more of minor frustrated endearment and your’s of plain indignation. Doesn’t really matter since you were wearing your mask, but hopefully he got the message from your hunched shoulders and rigid posture.

He throws both of his hands into the air. “BOOM! _Hee hee hee_ …!” He titters for a second and only stops when he notices Mona’s distinctly unimpressed face. “Uh, am I really that late?”

“Yes,” Mona spits out and rolls her eyes, but the tiniest tilt of her lips really shows how she’s not that upset. She turns to approach all the laid out ingredients and the shorter knight trails behind her. Her voice, while mostly stoic, still contains a fair amount of curiosity as she asks, “What was keeping you anyway?”

“Oh!” Plague Knight places his staff to the side and offers her his undivided attention. “I was, heh, just having a _blast_ at the Hall of Champions, _ha ha ha_ …!”

You can’t help how your interest is immediately piqued, nor the small snort at his pun. You feel the stares of the other two occupants of the room, but you ignore addressing them in favor of flipping through your book. Turns out Plague Knight wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to use your book to dabble in other old script recipes; something about how yours was an even older edition. You don’t know why that’d make it more enticing - weren’t newer editions more practical? - but you digress.

Vaguely, you recall something being mentioned about the Hall of Champions in your other book, but don’t really remember the specifics. 

Plague Knight stifles another laugh before commenting, “Heh heh, you wouldn’t _believe_ how many knights were there! So much target practice, _hee hee hee_ …!”

He trails off into another fit of giggling as Mona lightly chides, “Geez, you’re gonna use up all our bomb components at this rate…”

When their bickering stalls, you decide to interject your own curiosity. “Were the knights planning a coup on the outpost?” They remain silent and you draw an imaginary map in your head from your book’s descriptions. “It’s—the hall...it’s close, isn’t it...?”

Plague Knight and Mona share a quick look in which she shrugs and he places a finger under his chin in thought. Mask turned toward you, he pipes up, “I didn’t even think about that! _Hee hee hee_ , how crafty indeed!” He then waves a hand. “It matters not; for the moment, those knights are - _heh_ \- taking a _break_.”

Okay then. You didn’t really enjoy the sound of that, but then again it doesn’t concern you. Wrinkling your nose in slight distaste at Plague Knight’s giddiness in his retelling, you continue flipping through your book for other interesting recipes which maybe _won’t_ result in you blowing up.

Another thought pops in your head and you ask another question when the other two’s talk stalls. “What’s the Hall of Champions’ purpose? Is it like a fighting arena, or something?” Certainly sounded like one at least.

Plague Knight levels a stoney stare in your direction while Mona actually stifles a snort. A blush of embarrassment creeps up your neck when the tiny knight launches himself into another laughing fit. If Mona didn’t buy your amnesia story, then surely she thought you an absolute idiot judging by her hiding an all-knowing smirk behind a glove.

“ _Ahahaha_ …! Oh minion, that’s—” Plague Knight stutters off into another giggle before calming himself enough to speak actual words and not screech ‘hee’ every other breath. “That’s actually an interesting idea! But unfortunately not the case. The Hall of Champions—” He interrupts himself with what you can only assume is a grunt of disgust, “—is just a dusty old memorial to the founders of Pridemoor. All those frames— _bah_! What a waste of gold…”

Plague Knight trails off admonishing not only the builders of the hall but those who decided to honor them by framing them in real gold, even going on to curse those in the _pictures_ for being so greedy. It’s painfully ironic and you can’t help the small snort at his charades. When he notices your quiet snickering, you just reply, “Then why don’t you steal them?” 

The small knight just laughs as he always does, admitting it is rather close to his next ‘ingredient acquisition spree,’ or as you labeled it, his next series of heists. Apparently, the sneaky bastard was pretty slick when it came to stealing valuable alchemy supplies from rich neighborhoods and the like. You recall how Styx was recruited and you smile; even if the knight was a schemer too selfish for his own good, it wouldn’t do to have a leader who couldn’t take care of themselves.

You glance at Mona and how at ease she in when in Plague Knight’s presence. Your smile wanes before growing under your mask. Even if the knight had no sense of fear - or it at least seemed like it - his personal assistant would put him in place regardless. These two were the pillars and foundation of your new home.

You both hate and love the fact. 

While you had a home and place to call your own, you were still dependant on them in every manner; food, shelter, even hygiene. You weren’t really satisfied to realize your place is constantly under threat. Then again, it always has been, even before you joined as another of Plague Knight’s minions. But the fact remains that your otherwise stable foundation for finding your answers was not as unshakable as you believed.

Then there was the problem with your worth. You had accepted, even yearned for the opportunity to be even considered something compared to nothing. While that feeling hasn’t changed much, it’s become somewhat stifling. You find yourself hesitant to admit you’re no longer okay with having worth if you’re going to be manipulated into staying on a leash, so to speak. You want your answers, first and foremost; any other satisfaction can wait.

As it stands, you won’t - _can’t_ \- accept your worth if you didn’t even exist in the first place.

You may be accepted, you may have plenty of worth, you may be exceptionally useful...but those depend on another’s approval. Mona’s words continue playing back on repeat, urging you away from comparatively trivial matters. Your worth can wait when you have to figure out yourself first. Can’t adequately apply something whose properties you’re unsure of, after all.

But here, hidden away beneath an unsuspecting village in an underground laboratory, you have plenty of opportunity to achieve _both_. So for now you’ll focus on yourself, on figuring out your past and why it’s so elusive in the first place. Maybe once you’ve figured it all out, maybe then you’ll focus on becoming the most useful minion under Plague Knight and Mona.

Maybe then you won’t be reduced to a mere gimmick. Maybe then it will be enough.

For now you’ll pretend you’re fine with the way things are. You’ll play along in hopes it serves as training for the time when you’ll _really_ have worth.

“Plague,” Mona’s tired voice is uplifted by the light tone, “Don’t you have anything to report to our aide?”

You perk up the same moment Plague Knight does. He stutters a bit before turning his mask toward you and you reciprocate the action. A benign silence reigns as the knight places a thoughtful finger beneath his chin before snapping his fingers. “Right! Right, right...you’re quite curious about the Hall of Champions, yes?”

You hesitate briefly and nod the same moment Mona rolls her eyes. Bluntly, she states, “Just tell them already.”

“Errm, yes, o-of course, Mona.” He coughs once, probably trying to collect his thoughts. “M-minion! Perhaps you’re interested in the hall because it is the only crumbling _relic_ left over from that forsaken excuse for a kingdom—”

“ _Plague_ ,” Mona interrupts his grumblings. He stops but heaves a disgruntled sigh all the same.

“—it’s the only place still standing which preserved all known instances of old script.” The tiny knight grumbles some more before adding, “Before they made it into a storage space for _gold_ , it was a library containing only books written in old script.”

“Oh,” is all you can muster from the onslaught of new information. You shove it all aside for later; one thing at a time. 

You realize both Plague Knight and Mona are waiting for some sort of reaction from you, but you’re unsure of what they want. Do they expect something completely unfamiliar will magically bring back all your memories? If anything, all they did was provide more fuel to the bonfire of random but interconnected things which affect you.

So you simply return their expectant stares and counter, “What?”

“Nothing?” Mona pipes up. “None of that rings a bell?”

You bite back the urge to spit back at them, how they thought it’d be better if you didn’t remember. Instead you find your anger simmering down to manageable levels. You just look down at the book held open in your arms and the familiar, loopy letters staring back at you. “Maybe I was a historian or something.” Feeling exceptionally bitter, you add, “I’m unsure, and I doubt everything will come back so easily.”

Almost like an afterthought you then hastily remedy your rude remark. “...but thank you for trying. I...appreciate it.” If it came down to it, you can just chalk up your attitude with your repressed but real feelings of discontentment; it’s nearly been _months_ and yet you know little to nothing.

Plague Knight and Mona exchange another look but remain silent. Soon enough they begin conversing amongst themselves and you’re left with your own thoughts. You want to prove them wrong but it seems you’ll have to reinforce your facade. 

You were content for now, dependant on both the knight and his personal assistant. But one day, you want them to depend on you. Before then, you’ll have to work out your personal issues so you can present them with a whole and worthy assistant, not the broken and unstable one they work with now.

When Plague Knight calls you over to begin with the newest old script recipe, you happily approach the table and flip open your book. You read the procedure with muted joy and are relentlessly easygoing while reciting side notes and warnings. Both Plague Knight and Mona exchange a quick unreadable glance and you say nothing. When asked why you’re in a good mood you settle for telling them you’re just glad to be doing something worthwhile.

You doubt they believe it, but they don’t challenge your words. If anything, they probably believe you’re just trying to ignore the lingering issue of your essence’s— _your_ instability. Let them think what they want to.

You idly wonder if you feed them enough lies, will those lies eventually become the truth? 

Secretly, you hope you can eventually fool yourself.

**—**

The kiddie-gloves have officially come off. Or at least you reckon, given how obtrusive both Plague Knight and even Mona have been the last couple of sessions regarding your essence. Really, their excitement and prospects for harnessing the raw potential of your essence is difficult to ignore, even more so at the moment. Well, Mona wasn’t present to reign in the knight’s eccentric rants and theories.

“Think of the possibilities!” Plague Knight chirps, plucking a variety of flasks from the shelf. “Sure, none of the components are, _hee hee_ , fit to be in my perfect potion - far too unstable; er, not that I mean anything, minion - but there’s so much _potential_ , _hee hee hee_ …!”

You muster the courage to heave a heavy sigh. Knowing where this is going, given this is basically the new normal, you ask but there’s no genuine curiosity, “Potential for what?”

“For bombs, of course! _Hee hee, BOOM_!” The knight throws his hands up and nearly loses his grip on the large flask. He fumbles to catch it and you roll your eyes behind your mask and resume looking at the book resting in your lap. 

Either not picking up on your disinterest or just ignoring your lack of attention to the current topic, Plague Knight continues with a noticeable glee. “If - _if_ , now that’s the _real_ challenge, _hee hee_ \- we can contain even the _slightest_ figment of your anger… _ahahaha_ …! Just _think_ of what we would be capable of! No one in all of Pridemoor could outmatch our strength, _hee hee_ …!”

You roll your eyes again and silent curse when you realize the action made you lose your place in the recipe. Voice dull, you simply reply, “There’s no way my essence is that strong.”

“Oh?” Plague Knight pipes up almost curiously and you can feel his eyes boring into you. Wrinkling your nose and making a mental bookmark, you begrudgingly tear you head away to return your boss’s stare. “Do you doubt me…?”

Although his voice was tinted with an underlying dare he quickly adopts a noticeably chipper tone before adding, “No, wait—yes, yes, maybe it’s for the better if you do...if my theory is true, then...hmm, yes, yes…” His reedy voice trails off into near silence and you return your attention to the book, but your eyes fail to comprehend any of the words.

It takes a few more seconds of listening to Plague Knight’s half-muttered thoughts for your concentration to not only wane but break completely. Shutting the book with a sound of finality, you take a deep breath and prepare yourself for the certain onslaught of alchemy theory and hope you can understand it. 

Looking up, you find the rather obnoxious sound did nothing to alleviate Plague Knight’s attention from whatever’s going on inside his head. He’s still standing before the workbench, finger under his chin as he continues murmuring incessantly to himself. You kind of hate the fact you’re buying into your own curiosity; didn’t you promise yourself this stuff could wait until _after_ you had your shit sorted?

Not feeling to need to leave your comfy stool, you just turn your body toward him. Projecting your voice louder than necessary - making you feel like quite the ass in the process - you call, “What theory?”

Plague Knight’s muttering abruptly halts and he looks around like he’s confused. The way his plague-doctor mask swerves around, probably trying to find the reason his thoughts were interrupted, suits him perfectly. What with how he never seems to be still for prolonged periods of time, and his general jittery nature and routine screeches, it was almost like he actually _was_ a bird.

When he catches on to the fact you’re now staring at him expectantly, he manages a “What? Come again?”

Stifling a snort, you just repeat yourself. 

“Oh.” Plague Knight pauses to tap on his chin before saying, “Well, in regards to your essence and its strength, it _is_ a rather...skewed ratio. However!” He slams a fist into his hand for emphasis. “There may be a plausible reason if one considered both the source _and_ the outlet.”

Goading him on, you lean forward slightly. “Yeah?” Deciding to input your own thoughts on the matter in the hopes he’ll realize you’re actually invested, you ask, “Is—are the feelings, er, characteristics the source and I’m the outlet?” 

It was a shot in the dark but it makes the knight happy nonetheless. He nods once before chirping, “Precisely! Now—” He sits down at the bench before tapping his fingers across the tabletop. “—as we’ve discussed previously, the more destructive the characteristic, the more propensity it has to destroy once distilled. In other words, all your latent anger - and there’s quite a bit, _hee hee_! - is a storage with a large capacity to cause harm.”

 _Hence why it’d be a great component for bombs_ goes unsaid. But all in all it makes sense, in a weird, almost arbitrary way. It almost seems stupid if not common sense; of course more difficult to control emotions would have a greater capacity for disruption, be it internal or external. Kinda like elasticity, where the emotion can either push or pull, depending on the vector and placement, then factor in force...Eurgh, physics.

“...okay,” you say after a short pause. “So I have anger problems which in turn have the potential to cause a lot of harm? Doesn’t everyone have that capacity, though?” 

Humans were pretty garbage, after all. Well, at least in your books. You recall the lab you used to work in and internally scoff; all the proof in the world was right there. Your mere existence had condonned death via biological warfare, then coupled with how undercover the operation was, then the governments and politics associated with the job...yeah. Humans were awful things. Hell, you certainly knew _you_ were terrible, through and through.

Percy and the other animal-based people of this world briefly come to mind but then you remember the noble deer ladies in the village and think maybe they’re garbage too. Sentience inevitably results in choice, then that devolves into judgement...which results in a whole other can of worms entirely. Either way, sentient deer and horse people weren’t exempt from that sort of bigotry.

...apparently, you needed to reflect a lot more and a lot deeper than you initially thought. You wrinkle your nose. Difficult.

A stunted cough interrupts your train of thought in its tracks. Glancing up, you see Plague Knight leveling a steady stare at you. Embarrassed, you offer a meek, “Uh, sorry, didn’t catch that…?”

He just huffs irritably. “While it may be true anyone can disturb the peace - _heh heh heh_ \- it requires effort on their part.” He holds up a single finger as he explains, “They may have the anger stores but then they have to channel it, and beyond _that_ they must apply it. This process requires a substantial amount of energy _and_ conviction to pull off, which exhausts that anger.”

Plague Knight lowers his finger and points it directly at you. “And _you_ are no exception. But as I mentioned _previously_ —” He pauses, and from what you can tell he’s referencing the fact you blanked out on a conversation you initiated. “—you may have a, _hee hee, exceptional_ storage of malice, but you do not _apply_ it.”

You resist the very strong urge to tell him it’s probably better you don’t show off you apparent anger problems; really, they were more minute than he was giving you credit for. It couldn’t be _that_ big of a deal considering nothing ever happened because of your latent wrath—oh wait. Specter Knight.

...maybe he had a point.

“Er,” you gracefully begin, “Isn’t that a good thing…?”

“It depends,” is Plague Knight’s blunt answer. Honestly, you appreciate he’s managed to lock down his giggle fits and snort-fests to a minimum during this discussion. Obviously, you witnessed this side of him when he was actually teaching, but one on one makes it a bit more hard to swallow. If he’s toned it down this much, it was apparently something he was very invested in.

Specter Knight’s words come to mind and you nearly scoff. Everyone privy to essences seemed to know Plague Knight only recruited you _because_ of your essence. 

It’s during the lingering silence when Mona returns carrying a portable shelf filled with glassware.

You furrow your brows when you fail to see anything contained in all the flasks and vials, but Plague Knight leaps from his seat and claps his hands. “Ah, perfect! Mona, if you would…?”

The woman doesn’t verbally answer but begins organizing the glassware diligently. Two peas in a pod.

“Regardless,” Plague Knight’s voice becomes noticeably stricter and you barely register he’s talking to you again, “If my theory is correct - and think of the possibilities, _heh_ \- then you failing to apply your anger while allowing it to consume you results in a fairly large storage—”

Mona interrupts with a sigh. She doesn’t look up from organizing the vials by size as she says, “Plague, it’s not that hard.” She glances at your from her work and simply states, “No outlet means an unstable storage. Since anger is one of the most proactive emotions, it means you’re got a lot of potential to shake things up. Coupled with the sheer amount of anger…”

The woman waves a hand. “Pretty straight-forward if you ask me.”

“W-well said!” Plague Knight stutters briefly, to which his assistant rolls her eyes but smiles regardless. 

“But,” You can’t help but interject, much to their bafflement, “Isn’t an essence equivalent to that person’s—uh, it’s host’s potential? So you’re saying anger has more inherent potential associated with it…? Compared to other attributes…?”

Plague Knight releases a giddy laugh while Mona raises a single brow. “Wow,” she begins, voice surprisingly light, “Color me impressed. And yeah; it’s that simple.”

You nod once and mentally pat yourself on the back; you managed to impress Mona! Then you begin wonder what emotions would have the most inherent potential before hastily interrupting yourself. No point, especially if the logic behind it is...sort of faulty. Besides, you don’t want to be caught zoning out again. 

Returning his attention to you, Plague Knight adds, “As it stands, you’re essence contains _leagues_ of malice; unnaturally so. With no proper outlet—” His reedy voice devolves into stunted laughs like there was an inside joke only he was familiar with. “—you’re fit to - _hahaha_ \- _burst_ , _hee hee hee_ …!”

...really? But that’s just how feelings—whatever.

Plague Knight’s laughter goes on for what feels like a millennium and you barely repress the urge to openly scoff at his explanation. And here you were, thinking you’d get anywhere talking with the alchemist.

Unable to contain your rebuttal nor the latent frustration coiled in your voice like a snake ready to strike, you remark, “So...you’re basically saying I’m just emotionally stunted and because I don’t _express_ it, it’s unnaturally strong?” _That’s bullshit_ thankfully remains unsaid. You click your tongue and glare at the open air in front of you. Unable to contain yourself, you grunt, “That’s just how emotions work.”

Mona pauses in her sorting to offer you a strange expression. If you had to guess, it was like a cross between exasperation, hesitation, and maybe even admiration.

You wonder why she of all people would look at you like then when you notice Plague Knight’s unnerving stare, pointing directly at you. Okay, so maybe you were a bit rude and insensitive, but that certainly wasn’t enough to warrant your untimely end, right? Also, you belatedly realize you’re harsh mannerisms and words aren’t painting you in a good light, but at the same time it feels _good_ to let loose. 

“Hmm.” Plague Knight places a finger to his chin. “While you’re correct in a sense, you’re missing the point. _You_ are your _essence_ ; one might even say your essence goads you on in any endeavor you choose, _including_ your emotions.”

You open your mouth to inform him that emotions are just quantities of macromolecules floating around in the synapses of the brain’s neurons but stop yourself. Not like he would understand, given how stunted basic biological concepts were in this world, regardless of all the rampant chemistry. You internally scoff; no use in telling the truth when he wouldn’t understand, much less believe you. Let them live their lie that emotions are so much more.

Grumbling to yourself, you nod once in what you hope is understanding. You just wish he’d explain things in a simplified manner without going around in circles.

“Yet—” Plague Knight’s voice cuts through your internal griping, “—It’s almost as if your essence doesn’t really belong to you.” 

You can’t help but pause at that. Why the hell wouldn’t your own essence not belong to you? That didn’t make any sense. Unless you factored in your memory loss, but then again that was really an excuse at this point, right? You remembered the pristine lab and the microbes, you remembered your general career, you even subconsciously remembered your name once it was spoken, but…

...try as you might, you can’t really recall anything else. You don’t remember your childhood. You don’t remember your adolescence. You don’t really have a past to look back on and figure out why you’re like this now.

The environment one grows up in is said to be foundational in regards to the type of person they eventually become, but you have no references to look back upon to improve yourself. No real experiences which had unknowingly been laid out as keystones within your character. Just...routine days, locked away in a sanitary but dead laboratory. 

That wasn’t a past, not really. You...you still had little to no memories, even after all this time. It’s disheartening when you come to the logical conclusion and even admit it.

Something ugly curls inside your gut and you ignore it. The image of the crowd, first dressed in business suits seated around a table before dissolving into faceless silhouettes, comes to mind. The fear, god the _fear_ and utter despair you had felt. They—they knew your name. It had to have been a memory; one _before_ the lab.

When you think about the visage you briefly understand why your essence is the way it is.

Maybe Plague Knight wasn’t wrong is thinking maybe it’s better left unknown. 

...it may hurt to try and remember, but maybe it’ll be worth—no, it _will_ be worth it. You had to figure this out before you could truly accept your place. Can’t offer a product that isn’t whole. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be satisfied. 

It’ll get better.

Plague Knight briefly laughs before tapping his chin thoughtfully, muttering, “Perhaps a grudge you’re maintained? Poor perception of the world…? Hmm, how curious… _hee hee_ , even _I_ cannot fathom _why_ that essence cannot accurately describe its host...” He was having a field day with theories regarding your essence, so it seems.

Idly, you wonder why they haven’t mentioned all the other characteristics.

Plague Knight’s verbal thought pattern is quickly interrupted by Mona who bluntly states, “It doesn’t matter since they don’t remember anything. Besides,” she throws a glance at you, “It won’t miraculously change overnight, which might ruin all our research anyway.”

Ouch. She had a point, but still...Also—

You can’t help how your head whips around to throw a suspicious look at the woman. Sure, your face may be hidden, but she apparently catches your abrupt motion and correctly links it to surprise.

In the den of resulting silence, she turns to Plague Knight who idly fidgets in place. “...you didn’t tell them, did you.” It isn’t a question, not really.

“Uh, I was getting to that part, heh.” Plague Knight actually twiddles his thumbs together in apparent embarrassment - _what_ \- and shrinks in on himself under the weight of Mona’s relentless stare. He remains quiet for the better part of a minute, averting his gaze away from the woman in favor of looking over at you. 

Posture returning to his normal, perceptually confident self, the knight coughs once. “W-well, minion, there was—um, a reason I explained everyth— _mostly_ everything to you!” You watch Mona’s stare evolve into a glare, which apparently doesn’t go unnoticed by Plague Knight who quickly amends, “N-not that I’m hiding anything, _ha ha ha_ , don’t be ridiculous, _heee_...! But there’s still unknowns and that’s why we _must_ research it!”

Plague Knight trails off into a small bout of titters while Mona just sighs. Regardless, you don’t like where this is going.

You repeat your concern. “ _What_ research?”

Mona redirects her bland look over to you. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out.”

You try to hold your tongue, even going so far as biting it. But you can’t help the utter dread which settles in your stomach like a bunch of rocks. You almost reach in your robes to finger for you burst potion but remember you left it in your room. Looks like you were shit out of luck.

Benignly sitting on your stool, tone prompt, you admit, “I think so, but I want to hear you admit it first.”

Mona offers you a curious stare. “...that’s fine.” She stands up straight and brushes herself off. “We want to take some of your essence.”

“Figures.” You wrinkle your nose and wonder how they’re planning to extract your essence. From you personal research, essences are difficult to take, often requiring the host be incapacitated in some manner. More often than not that manner was being knocked out so thoroughly they wouldn’t even be available subconsciously.

You can’t help but side-eye Plague Knight when he begins rummaging through his personal satchel. 

Unable to contain your anxiety, you hold up both your hands defensively. “Oh-kay, wait.” Once both Mona and Plague Knight look up at you, attention caught, you continue, “As much as I’d love to conduct tests on my own essence, _how_ , exactly, are you going to take it? Like…” You wave your hands like it’ll somehow get your point across, “ _Last time_ , I was practically dead. A-and I’d rather _not_ repeat that, sooo…”

You barely register the slight wince from Mona but Plague Knight simply places a finger on his chin. 

Vaguely, you recall how Draak spoke about the knight taking some of his minion’s essences in the past and wonder how he managed it. Bringing up your worries, Plague Knight shrugs after laughing for a bit. “Well, idiot minions who don’t do their job properly deserve to be my target practice, _ehehehe_..! After a quick - _hee hee_ \- _BOOM_ —” He throws his hands up for emphasis, “—their essence is free for the taking!” Again, his voice pitters out into deranged giggles.

Before he can get too carried away with his explosives, you quickly interject, maybe with too much desperation, “H-hold on! Isn’t there—there’s no other way?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Mona begins, voice strangely clipped while Plague Knight continues cackling under his breath like a madman, “Think of it as retribution for all the time Plague _would’ve_ blown you up during lab.”

So either Mona was an exceptionally cruel woman or she was cracking a horrible joke at your expense. 

You watch the corner of her lips twitch up in a smile and that’s all you need to clue in on the fact she’s actually joking. Mona, the-stoic-and-commanding-woman-who’s-Plague-Knight’s-personal-assistant, the lady who never really smiled unless she was apparently using cipher coins. Honestly, judging by how the other minions reacted to her, she was basically a paragon if not a slightly terrifying one. But then there were those other minions who just loaded off their work onto her…

Suddenly you don’t feel so bad for all those minions who were knocked around by Plague Knight under the guise of ‘target practice’. Even if you had never personally witnessed such an account, Styx certainly has and made mention they often deserved it for slacking off. Slacking off by making Mona do all their work. _Ah_.

You can’t help the relieved sigh when Mona finally drops the cool act in favor of her smirk. Plague Knight’s still laughing like he’s witnessed the funniest thing in ages. In the resulting lull, you relax and slouch on your stool, awaiting further instruction. Even if you had to be knocked out - something you _still_ weren’t that privy to - Plague Knight wouldn’t cause grievous harm. No, he still needed you as a resource.

You can’t help the smile tugging at your own unseen lips. First Plague Knight and then Specter Knight…

You’re unsure how long this game will last, but you’ve now been established as an important enough piece to maintain. For now, you had a place and a secure reason for it. You just hope you can keep it.

It takes a bit for Plague Knight to calm down, and more time for him to form coherent sentences without busting his gut. “ _Hee hee_...What good is science unless you can explode something? Besides—” He snaps his fingers and in a controlled swath of green flames, a flask filled with...something lands neatly into his waiting hand. Some sort of vitriol, from the looks of it.

His mask turns toward you. “—it’s time to experiment, _hee hee hee_ …!”

You hold up a single finger. “Hold on,” you say before recognizing your no-nonsense tone and in a poor attempt to rectify it, you tack on a lame “Please.” You glance at Mona and idly think of the conversation you held with her previously. Maybe what you’re about to bring up may induce her latent disquiet of being left out of the picture, so to speak, but it’s worth a shot.

“What about that time you stole Shovel Knight’s essence?” You look at Plague Knight and watch him tilt his head questioningly. “You—” Best not bring up the fact the alchemist _was_ probably more underhanded than the cerulean knight. “—er, he was just sleeping, right? Couldn’t you just extract my essence if I, I don’t know, took a nap in the lab?” 

A nap _does_ sound good right about now, anyway. And infinitely less creepy if they were going to take some of your essence while you were sleeping in the privacy of your own room. Considering how Plague Knight burst into your room the other day...yeesh.

Placing the flask filled with a cloudy-white solution aside, Plague Knight hums thoughtfully. You can tell from the poorly hidden disdain in his voice he’s not too happy you brought up the other knight. “Well, yes, but you failed to account for him rampaging through _my_ Explodatorium like an utter buffoon, wrecking _everything_ in his path like the simple idiot he is, _then_ he has the _gall_ to challenge me in _my own home_ —!”

The alchemist stops and attempts to collect himself. Sighing, he relaxes his hands from the fists he made during his rant. His reedy voice is noticeably calmer when he says, “That oaf was so tired his sleep was no different from a forced coma, for the most part.”

“Oh.” Well, at least you tried.

“Don’t worry too much,” Mona interjects, placing the portable shelf aside. “We’re not gonna knock you out; just gonna try and conjure some with none of the hassle.”

You say nothing but can’t help tilting your head in confusion. Was that even possible? 

“Yes, yes,” Plague Knight giggles. “I wish to test one of my hypotheses, of course!” As if predicting your question and suspicion wrapped into one neat, anxiety-ridden package that is you, he quickly explains, “Now that I’ve explained everything to you, perhaps the extraction - I hope - will be that much easier, _hee hee hee_ …!”

Right. He thinks a more willing participant will have an easier-to-remove essence. Considering the only thing separating an essence from a very determined alchemist was the host’s consciousness, sub or otherwise, then it makes sense it would be easier to take if the consciousness was deliberately allowing it to _be_ taken.

You notice both Plague Knight and Mona are now both looking at you. Really, you know this lab session isn’t going to conclude unless they got their hands on some of your essence, and maybe you were pretty curious yourself about the whole thing, but it almost like they wanted confirmation on your part. Slouching a bit, in as accepting of a tone you can find you comment, “Sounds good.”

And that’s all it takes before they’re shuttling you to sit at the table with Mona standing by in case you faint or are otherwise incapacitated by the procedure. There’s no words of encouragement but the fact they were both concerned enough to account for the possibility warms your cold, dead heart. The perks of being a precious resource.

The procedure itself is...actually pretty simple and straightforward. 

Plague Knight began by prepping all the empty vials and flasks by pouring in that strange, cloudy solution which he referred to as ‘heaven’s vitriol.’ When you asked about its properties he responded it was often used to combat alchemical explosives because it acts more like a stabilizer than enhancer, and it’s _very_ good at what it does. Then he complained about how hard it was to get; the main component of mandrake’s tears were extremely rare, as it were.

Like you expected, you’re tasked with being as relaxed as you possibly can be for the sake of an easier retrieval. 

There’s no real flair during the extraction. Plague Knight just grabbed his staff - “helps him concentrate” as Mona fondly put it - and grips it tightly, waves his other hand around and the tell-tale green flames are all you need to see to know it’s conjuration. 

You like to think you helped by also having a desperate desire to see your essence up close and personal, unlike those fleeting glimpses you caught way back when. And by wanting to see the actual removal, maybe you made it easier to take as opposed to just accepting the fact it would be taken. 

Still, the feeling is...rather uncomfortable. Kinda like something is tugging at your innermost matter; in this case, it was like the alchemist made an incision and plucked a good chunk away from the void nestled there. There’s no lingering pain, and you find yourself equating the process to plastic surgery where they take cartilage away from your ribs to use on your face. Wasn’t too terrible.

Of course, you _did_ feel a large portion of your stamina drained once the wisps of black and red came out of you. And, being the graceless idiot you are, you fell forward and smacked your head hard enough into the tabletop to shake the resting glassware.

Once they both had successfully collected the portion of your essence into a flask and stopped laughing their asses off at you, Mona decided to have enough mercy to pat you on the back consolingly. Idly grumbling as you pry your suddenly heavy mask from the wooden counter, you wonder if this is what it feels like to pass out if you’ve drunk too much.

Willing away the absolute fatigue weighing down your entire body - was it really this bad after the whole Specter Knight deal? - you look up as Plague Knight places the stoppered flask onto the bench. The eerily familiar sight of black and red gaseous tendrils, swirling around each other like lethargic snakes greets your eyes. It’s...a lot less horrifying than you remember. Weren’t there—

Seems like you’re not the only one waiting for the distorted, agonized faces to appear since both Plague Knight and Mona react accordingly when they finally do. 

While the tiny alchemist is caught in a fit of bubbly chortles, Mona actually lets out a low whistle. She leans down and watches with open interest as the faces swirl and writhe toward her. “Been a while, but that’s some pretty potent stuff, alight.”

“Indeed, _hee hee hee_ …!” Plague Knight gleefully cackles. He peers over at you, shoulders still shaking in mirth. “Well? What do you think, minion?”

You don’t say anything in favor of staring at gaseous mass.

There’s no glimmer, no shine. Just a swirling cloud of red and black, curling around each other to make the familiar visual of faces frozen in tortured screams. Sort of like the soul water you fetched back then.

You want to lean in closer and see how it’ll react, but something twists painfully in your gut. 

“I think…” you begin quietly, “I think you should run your tests.”

Plague Knight needs no further prompting before he hastily grabs the flask and uncorks it in one, fluid motion. Giggling like the madman he is, he rapidly pours a small portion of the essence into all the vials filled with some heaven’s vitriol, going from most to least. How the stuff looks gaseous yet pours almost like a fluid is a strange sight.

Leaving a sizable amount in the flask without any of the cloudy vitriol, the knight replaces the stopper and then repeats the process for all the vials. You notice that he changed the ratios via differing the amounts of heaven’s vitriol before adding the same amount of the essence to each test tube, all to see how much vitriol is needed for stabilization. Smart.

The three of you watch with bated breath as the essence reacts to the different amounts of vitriol. 

The more vitriol in the vial, the more the essence acted more viscous than gaseous. Additionally, the black and red tendrils slowed their perpetual swirling, eventually stalling to the point even the distorted faces fell apart. Of the dozen independent tests, only a couple containing the most vitriol exhibited that physical change.

You lean back and watch with detached interest as Plague Knight plucked the most filled vial from the rack it rested in. Delicately holding it aloft, he continued to stare while it was still in the process of physically changing. The screaming faces constructed of the red and black tendrils were long gone, but the fact the red began to dissipate until only the black was left warranted an absolutely ecstatic burst of laughter from the knight.

“ _Ahah_! I _knew_ it!” Plague Knight cried, pumping his unoccupied fist into the air. 

“Another theory?” Mona pipes up curiously. Peeking over at her shows a curious glint in her eyes and the smirk now adorning her lips only adds to the mad scientist lurking in her. “Do tell.”

“ _Heh_ , only if you insist, Mona.” Gingerly holding the vial up between two fingers so you can all clearly see the abyssal black solution inside, Plague Knight begins by swirling the glassware and looking at you. “ _This_ is why your essence is so unstable.”

Before, in your tired and consequently careless state, you can snidely comment that explained next to nothing, Plague Knight continues. “Simplified, the red segments are the physical manifestation of your anger and the black of your despair. Note how the total volume did not change—” He again swirls the vial and its contents. “—indicating the anger is, _hee hee hee_ , merely a front!”

...so it was superficial? Or—

Mona interrupts your train of thought. Brow raised, she questions, “So either the anger came from the despair or it’s masking it, which then implies the entire essence is…” Her voice trails off as her eyes grow steadily wider.

Plague Knight looks over at his assistant and releases a bout of shrill giggles. “Yes, _hee hee hee_...! Like oil and water mixing but never _staying_ mixed, heh!”

Mona breaths a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “The instability. Gods, you’re _brilliant_ , Plague.”

The knight in question just fumbles with the vial before almost hunching in on himself. “O-oh, heh, well, I-I _do_ try…!” 

He continues preening as he and Mona further discuss the implications, but you found your eyes wandering to the flask filled with only your essence. Staring at it for too long leaves a sour taste in your mouth and a heavy unease settling in your stomach. Curling into yourself and somewhat glad they’re no longer paying much attention, your fingers find themselves gripping the sleeve of the opposing arm and it’s all you can do to hold yourself together.

It’s like looking at madness incarnate.

But you still yearn to _understand_.

The faces writhe around one another, cork stopper preventing the horrid impressions of those screams from being heard. Instead they cry out soundlessly, crimson wisps stretched almost painfully into gaping mouths. It feels uncannily similar to the void within, and then you realize—

Unclasping your tight fingers from your heavy green robes, you hesitantly reach out and over the wooden table. The cacophony of anguished faces trapped behind the glass notice your approach and swirl more violently, thrashing so hard the flask shivers. For as stiff as your fingers are, they are exceptionally gentle when they surround the flask’s bulbous bottom. The faces struggle more, glass prison quivering harshly with their sheer force.

The volumes remained stagnant. The black, the abyss, the despair swallowed the malice and nothing changed, not really. The anger was birthed from the shame, the guilt, the _despair_. 

Like oil and water. Unable to mix, unable to ingrain itself completely. No real application. Temporary; it was temporary. It wasn’t there, not really; how could it be if it was a facade? 

A dry laugh bubbles up but dies behind your erratic heart. It was so simple.

You are one in the same.

“—the self-destruction.” From your peripheral you catch both Mona and Plague Knight whip around to stare at you in abject horror.

The void knows. You just need to _remember_.

Your hands mold to the flask’s rotund shape. It stops shuddering against the wooden table but the screaming faces made of scarlet tendrils continue to thrash in the inky black accompanying them. Briefly, you register two things: the faces only intensify their writhing to the point the glass still manages to silently shake in your hold, and there’s a distinct warmth pressing against your gloved palms.

The flask explodes.

You can’t help but curse and instinctively close your eyes as the echoes of shattering glass and faint screams reverberate inside your ears. Idly, you hear the hasty approach of Mona and Plague Knight but don’t look to see. Instead, your eyes are glued to your hands hanging limply in the air, fingers twitching as blood begins to drip from the various lacerations, gloves in shreds. You curse again.

“Minion!” Plague Knight squawks. “ _Heee_ , it’s just as I thought…!” 

You barely catch a glimpse of your essence’s remnants dissipating into the open air when Mona appears on the other side of the table, chalk and small bottle in hand. She doesn’t even look up when she commands, “Hold still.” 

You obey and a quick transmutation later you can’t help but cry out again, hissing at the sharp pain winding around and inside your hands. You wince and notice the clear liquid inside the tiny bottle is now a small pile of glittering dust and small shards of glass. The sting burning your skin is familiar; she exchanged the glass stuck in your hand for alcohol. While strangely brilliant, it fucking _hurts_.

Satisfied with her work, Mona then conjures a small roll of white bandages. A quick job later, you hands are neatly wrapped. Your hands look like you broke all your fingers.

It takes a minute for you to collect yourself, busying yourself by watching Plague Knight hastily stabilize the samples which were noticeably shaking and Mona clean up the mess. 

Hesitant to break the silence but too tired to care, you ask, “What did you mean by ‘self-destruction’...?”

Mona answers before Plague Knight can. “Because of the instability and the fact there’s no proper outlet, there was a chance an internal combustion would occur.” The woman glances up from clearing away the wayward pieces of glass. “Simplified, your essence lashes out indiscriminately. Hence why this—” She pointedly looks at your hands, “—happened.”

“Oh,” You sigh. “Makes sense.” You could think about everything later.

You get up and attempt to help clean the mess you caused in the first place, but both Plague Knight and Mona shoo you away and tell you to get some rest. Well, the latter does. Fatigue creeping into your consciousness like a weight, you don’t argue and leave the auditorium. 

Once you’re in your room, you don’t even remember to make your candles go out before you’re in bed, dead to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Forgot to upload this yesterday.
> 
> Here's some more plot stuff. Sorry I like to explain non-indicative things to the death, but I feel like it's important for this story. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy! And a big thanks to everyone for commenting; I don't wanna clog up the real comments with my own, but I've read and appreciated all the kind words!! Thanks so much!


	11. The Residual Supporter

You found yourself in your dorm more often these days. This was due to multiple reasons: first and foremost, you had a bunch of things to sort through, then there was the fact Mona didn’t want you and your hands anywhere near her lab work, and there was also the matter of Plague Knight disappearing as he usually did every so often. Something about ‘greeting an old friend.’

Resigned to your much-needed but boring fate of resting to both heal your hands and replace the small portion of your essence, you sat at your desk.

While you’ve attempted to keep it hidden for the most part, the fact still stands you can’t decipher the modern script. Not to mention you haven’t figured out a way to ask about it without divulging you were at least slightly illiterate. And then there was the most glaringly obtuse fact: why does your world and this one have not only the same vocal language, but also a shared written alphabet? No matter how you reasoned, it just didn’t make any sense.

Getting a bit stir crazy from being allocated to doing nothing, you heave a sigh and glare at your wrapped fingers. Since the injuries weren’t that bad, at least compared to the last time you exploded glass, using healing magic wasn’t deemed necessary. Something about the Magicist juggling her job in the Potionarium and in the village.

Deciding to let loose some steam, you leave your room and head to the boiler room. 

While you expect to see Mona fiddling with her personal shelf of equipment or helping another minion, you _certainly_ don’t expect to find her twirling about the boiler room, arms outstretched as her body weaves to some unknown beat. 

Feeling like a mighty creep, you immediately make to leave the woman to her dancing, but you can’t seem to force your eyes away from her form. The way her cloak billows with every step, the elegance of her timed steps…

For as uncultured as you are, you did appreciate witnessing the fine arts in the form of dancing. And who knew a waltz could be so enchanting? What else could it be, given the precise timing of every turn the woman conducted, though the angle of her arms was strange given a waltz typically depicted two partners.

Mona twirls once, twice more. Apparently, she wasn’t dancing with her eyes open - the coordination! - and when she finally _did_ , she noticed your intrusive presence.

Startled, Mona swings away from you and can’t hide the shock encompassing her face. Too embarrassed at being caught being a major creep, you just stand awkwardly with your arms behind your back.

“Uhhh,” you drawl after a brief beat, voice strangely raspy from barely using it the past few days, “Sssorry…? I didn’t mean to see that—”

“It’s fine,” Mona bites out, straightening her posture out. “Not the first and probably won’t be the last time, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh.” So she dances by herself a lot or something? It’s been months and you never knew.

Trying - and probably failing - to make up for the fact you’re a massive creep, you comment, “You keep the time well without music.”

Mona then turns to you wearing a look between indignant and contemplative. She blinks a few times before slowly relenting, “...thanks, I guess. Didn’t know you knew dancing.”

“Oh, no, no no no,” you hastily shake your head as if actively trying to dispel her curiosity. “I don’t think I can dance to save my life— _way_ too clumsy! I just—well, I like to think I enjoy music enough to appreciate it and the arts it supports.”

“Well said.” And with that the woman turns away to actually begin going through her personal shelf. It takes a few more moments for her to gather the ingredients for her next alchemy endeavour. You glance at the small desk she has set up and notice the variety of dusts, powders, and...was that ectoplasm?

Noticing that you haven’t left, the woman turns around and shortly asks what you want. You just flash your bandaged hands at her - too thick to put gloves on - and she cows you with a single glare.

“You—” Apparently she didn’t recognize you like she has previously; maybe something was on her mind? “ _You’re_ supposed to be resting,” Mona bluntly states. “Or have you forgotten an alchemist’s most useful tools are their hands?”

Your wince goes unnoticed under your mask. Hesitantly, you admit, “I’m bored and want something to do—” Mona glares at you and you quickly defend yourself, “— _besides_ healing. Isn’t there anything I can do to help? Literally anything.” _I need to distract myself from the knowledge I_ don’t _know_ goes unsaid.

Mona offers her trademark deadpan expression. “Leave.”

Feeling especially ballsy, you just tilt your head questioningly at her personal bench. Ignoring her narrowing eyes, you comment, “What’re you making?”

A few tense moments pass before Mona heaves a hefty sigh. “You’re not going to leave, are you.” It’s not really a question, more a less a statement of fact. When you don’t respond or make any indication of doing so, she sighs again and answers, “Smoke bombs.”

You perk up when you recognize the name. Vaguely, you recall your battle with the Black Knight and the single smoke bomb Styx had given you. Belatedly, you realize it’s still hidden away in your room since you didn’t remove it from your pocket after the fight, carrying it with you back to the Potionarium. Considering there wasn’t an opportunity to return it to Styx, you just held on to it.

“Oh yeah! I’ve got one of those stashed away in my room,” you mention. Mona doesn’t really look too surprised and you go on, speculating, “They make you temporarily intangible because of the ectoplasm, right?” You point at the flasks containing the viscous blue fluid for emphasis.

Instead of directly responding to you, Mona just nods once before saying, “Styx?” Surprised but not caught entirely off guard, you nod. She begins prepping her bench and retrieves her personal notebook from her cloak, plopping it on the counter. Conversationally, she comments, “Figures. He’s talented when it comes to transmutations, particularly those involved in crafting bombs.”

“Sort of like you…?” You hazard to which Mona shakes her head.

“Not really. I’d even say he’s better than me since he can’t utilize raw magic like I can,” she explains. “So he’s figured out a way to get around that deficient with more complex arrays.”

You feel your chest flutter as the woman praises your friend; about time he wasn’t looked down upon for being just another minion! In fact, both your friends deserved respect and recognition, one for being talented and the other for being a goddamn-too-nice dragon. 

“Wait,” you say. You look over at the various tools laid out over the bench and see a couple pieces of chalk. “Magic is necessary to activate arrays, right? And since you probably don’t want me handling anything, maybe I could just...activate any arrays?” 

Mona offers you a thoughtful look and shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Channeling magic’s pretty easy, and kind of necessary if you’re doing any kind of alchemy.” Right. Because alchemy is just a the happy middle-ground between science and magic.

You know you’re never actually done any _real_ alchemy, just used its results for your own ends. When it came down to it, you’ve just been conducting fancy chemistry with supervision; most of the time. Surely that bomb you constructed from a non-array recipe didn’t really count as alchemy considering it failed to utilize magic at all. Well, your personal meddling of the original procedure didn’t use any magic.

Agreeing, you simply sit down on a free stool and idly watch Mona prep her lab station. You’re glad she doesn’t ask you to read from her personal notebook since you probably couldn’t read the alphabet it’s written in. Still, she brings it up herself, saying her handwriting and organizational skills are so atrocious even she has difficulties remembering her train of thought when writing down notes. 

A few minions come and go, and fewer approach Mona for help with something or other. One requests ‘help’ in making a new burst potion but just hands her a small piece of parchment before leaving. Apparently, it was common for minions to just expect Mona to make up everything for them. It’s...well, pretty rude. Like a group project; there’s always that one prick who refuses to participate. Except it’s worse.

After they leave, you complain to Mona about their lack of tact to which she simply replies she’s used to it and it keeps her on her toes, so to speak. It doesn’t sit well with you regardless, but you put a cap on it.

While Mona helps a few minions with understanding a step or two in their own alchemy endeavours, you watch the essences floating in the Dynamo Decanter’s holding tank. You quash the jealousy stirring inside your chest and instead try to just admire them. You wonder why the most powerful knights in the entire valley have such beautiful essences when they’re...are they forced to do evil things? Specter Knight made it seem like they were all coerced into the Order…

...what did that say about _you_?

You nearly sigh in relief once Mona begins working on her smoke bombs, peppering the awkward silence between you by describing what she’s doing. You ask if the ectoplasm she’s using is the same supply from your own trip but she shakes her head. 

“Went there myself,” she says uninterestedly like she didn’t just do something life-threatening. “Ectoplasm’s pretty useful so I go there once in a while if I’ve got the time.” 

Hesitantly, you ask, “What about Specter Knight?”

“Never met the guy ‘sides when he tells me to scram.” Mona pipettes something clear into one of the flasks with ectoplasm. The solution becomes noticeably more fluid. “‘Course I have ways around his security. And as far as I know, if you don’t cause a ruckus then it’s fine to go collecting there.”

You ignore the pointed look she gives you. “Makes sense. So what did you use that ectoplasm on?”

“Likely the same smoke bombs Styx gave to you,” she replies, mixing together two fine powders. “He wanted to learn so he shadowed me and then tried it for himself with the extra I had left. Pretty good for his first time, too.” She pauses to wipe a stirring rod. “Didn’t get the chance to use it, right?”

You almost agree but stop yourself. “Well, I _could’ve_ but I, uh, didn’t really think to…”

Mona looks up inquisitively. “It’s probably for the best. It’d be a perfectly good waste if it was used on lowly knights.” She doesn’t hide her disdain for them as she rolls her eyes. You can’t help but internally agree.

“Uhhh,” you drawl stupidly again, “It was...er, it was one knight.” You don’t know _why_ you just admitted that. If anything, you were _way_ too comfortable with Mona.

She stops what she’s doing and offers you a single raised brown and distinctly unimpressed eyes. “One knight.”

God, it was Plague Knight all over again. Attempting to defend yourself, you stammer, “Yuh-yeah. He was...uh, Plague Knight called him the Black Knight, if that helps…?”

You regret the words immediately when you see Mona seize up and adopt a haggard look. It takes a couple moments for her to relax, but she let her guard down long enough for you to get a slight idea that Mona either knew the knight or was feeling put-out again. You don’t pry; not your business.

Mona continues her work in a noticeably tense silence. 

Once she gets to the point where she needs to draw an array, you perk up and watch her draw out a rather complex one. You note it takes a bit longer than what you’d expect from Styx but remain silent.

“Okay,” Mona starts, calmer than her stiff body suggests, “Crash course in arrays—” She shoots you a dirty look when you can’t snuff out the tiny snort at ‘crash’ but continues mostly unfettered. “You can activate them one of two ways; either you channel and apply raw magic or your draw a sigil which commands the raw magic, but uses your body as the channel.”

She barely glances at you before handing you the chalk. You take it with your stupid fingers after nearly dropping it. Shifting the open notebook toward you, Mona points to some doodles which you assume are sigils necessary to activate an array. Oddly enough, they look virtually identical to zodiac insignias. 

“Typically, you use the sigil which matches the stars you were born under,” Mona clarifies. “But since you have amnesia—” You don’t even try to hide your wince, “—use this one; it should work since it’s neutral.” 

You nod along and look at the symbol she currently tapping. Keeping the linear and curved lines common to normal zodiacs, the symbol looks like a fancy stamp of a crescent moon. You notice there’s one similarly depicting the sun but you make no comment. Not like you know enough about magic to understand.

Not missing a beat she then tells you to practice drawing it on the wooden counter. You do and it takes a few tries to get it up to snuff with Mona’s approval. You feel kind of bad for drawing all over her bench but she just reaches over to your side, glides a hand over each scribble and in a flash of pink the chalk disappears like it was never there. Catching onto your wow, she just states, “I was a magic user before I was an alchemist.”

Idly, you wonder what her story is. You like to think she’s akin to Styx in that she carries herself as if she was a noble or someone important. You can’t even begin to conjure up - _haha_ \- ideas of how she and Plague Knight met.

You watch Mona place all her ingredients into the array and wait, chalk held loosely in your hand. She barely looks up before commanding, “Now draw that sigil here.” She points to one of the blank spaces in between the circles and you reach over to do as instructed. 

“Um,” you stall and hover over the space. “How will I know if I’m doing it right? Is there, uh, like a procedure I should do, or—”

She cuts you off. “Like I said, the sigil will do all the work. If anything, you’ll feel magic coursing through you since you’re acting as its conduit.” 

You just hold your breath and resist quipping that didn’t explain anything. Instead, you bring your hand down and, avoiding smudging or otherwise ruining the array, draw the moon-like sigil. Finished, you look up at Mona who nods and you go to lift the chalk—

Something _pangs_ inside.

“ _Ghrrrk_ —” You drop the chalk and instead find your fingers clutching at your chest. What the...were you having a heart attack? But just as abrupt as the pain had come, it was gone without a trace; no dull echoes ringing throughout your nerves, nothing to even hint it was there at all.

You glance down at the smudged array from your action and slowly look up at Mona. Where you expect irritation or frustration you instead find unhidden shock. Something stirs inside the void and try as you might, you can only pinpoint a strange feeling of dismissal, of rejection.

Unable to take the silence any longer, you ask, “What’s wrong…?” You’re not sure if you’re asking Mona or yourself.

Mercifully, Mona answers. Eyes still wide and mouth pulled into a grimace, she says, “...you can’t use magic.”

For some reason, you feel a sense of validation at her words instead of the dread you expect. What use were you if you couldn’t use magic? You couldn’t be an alchemist, not really. Still the satisfaction remains. “Is that bad?”

You watch as the woman peers down at you while her shocked expression gives way to one of scrutinization and finally hesitance. “Not necessarily,” she answers after a moment. “It’s not uncommon if one can’t use magic, but it’s something anyone can train, given time and effort. But you—” She pauses again and furrows her brows. “You can’t use magic even if you tried. It...it _rejected_ you.”

You wonder if that’s why it hurt for a brief moment and ask. Mona purses her lips and agrees. She explains, “Once you finish mapping the sigil you offer yourself as a channel. Yet...as soon as the magic entered you, it immediately dissipated.” 

Her voice grows steadily smaller. She then whispers, “It didn’t reject you; no, _something_ is deliberately preventing magic from taking root…”

She mutters under her breath and you barely catch the phrase ‘self-destruction,’ but say nothing. 

More time passes until Mona breaks the silence again. She looks at you with what you can only describe as a look melding both pity and scrutiny. “I think,” she begins slowly, “You’re cursed.”

...you have to try _so_ hard to not devolve into crude laughter. You know this is a serious discussion, if the atmosphere is anything to go by, but by god that’s—

You hastily disguise your small snort as a lingering coughing fit from your pain. Crisis averted, you look up at Mona and question, “I was cursed to be unable to use magic…?”

She doesn’t say anything for a bit before heaving a sigh. “Yeah, something like that.” 

Still curious and also wanting to seem like you’re taking this like any rational human being would, you ask, “What even constitutes a curse?”

“A curse is the worst-case scenario for equivalent exchange,” Mona answers, hovering her glove over the ruined array and purging it from the wood. “To be cursed to ask for something which costs a price you cannot normally satisfy. The result is that something dear is taken from you to make up for the definciny…” 

She narrows her eyes as the last of the chalk is banished. “People like that are never the same as they were before the exchange.”

Oh. So then...it was you. _You_ did something. But that...that doesn’t—

“If…” Mona begins, voice hesitant, “If my guess is right, then your memories—”

“—were likely part of the price,” you finish, voice dull. She doesn’t reply but nods once in affirmation. 

It doesn’t make any _sense_. Well, maybe it did from her perspective, but there was no way you could’ve used magic and unknowingly cursed yourself. How could you do that when you came from an entirely different world where magic _didn’t exist_? No, it was impossible; unless—

“Could someone else have paid the price?” You find yourself asking almost hopefully. At Mona’s slightly confused glance you clarify, “As in _I_ paid the price for someone _else’s_ action…?”

The woman stills before furrowing her brows. “I’m...not sure. Seems plausible enough, but I’ve never heard of something like that.” She shakes her head and averts her eyes. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. You—”

You interrupt her. “I can still regain my memories, right?”

Mona doesn’t answer, but the abruptly pained look crossing her features answers your question enough.

The quiet lingers between you two for minutes on end. Eventually, Mona tries to downplay your potential worries but you quickly cut her off, saying nothing can be done. She drops it once it’s abundantly clear you don’t really care.

The reality is that you _do_ care. How could you not, when everything you’ve striven for this entire time - since waking up in _this_ world - was for nothing? No. You won’t— _can’t_ accept it. You’ve recalled working in that pristine laboratory, recognized your name when spoken, even visualized a repressed memory during one of the seminars. 

You’ve managed to remember some things, so why can’t you remember everything?

Logically, you should be able to regain more of your lost memories and subsequently, your identity. You just have to be patient and perhaps be willing to actively seek your answers instead of waiting for them to show themselves. And even if worse comes to worse, something is still far better than nothing to call your own.

After all, you cannot truly exist if you don’t know who you are, cannot have a purpose here at the Potionarium if you cannot validate yourself. Especially so if you cannot become an alchemist without magic.

What use is a broken tool?

Then again...there had to be some sort of reason why you were dropped into this world in the first place; who’s to say someone else caused that and you paid the price? Or maybe the magic knew what you had done back home and decided your memories, your science was a threat.

...there’s no use thinking about it. One thing at a time.

Deciding to distract yourself, you ask Mona why she’s bothering to make more smoke bombs. The woman simply responds they make it far easier for her to sneak around places she shouldn’t be. You wisely don’t question her intentions, but note that her prior tenseness has returned. 

Several minutes later Mona finishes, four glass bottles sitting benignly where the ingredients once were. Knowing she didn’t want you handling glass with your sausage-wrapped fingers, you admire the gray smoke curling inside the casing like rolling thunder clouds. 

Knowing she sells her goods, you ask her how much each one is worth. She raises a brow but once she states their price the urge to buy vanishes. Bartering is not your strong suit, so you instead try to offer anything which might be of value to the esteemed alchemist. 

Then you remember how you still have that solid gold crown from one of the giant boneclangs from the Lich Yard and tell Mona to wait while you scamper back to your room. Soon enough, you’re displaying the deceptively heavy laurel and ask her if it would be enough to to cover the cost of one smoke bomb.

Taking it from you, she weighs it while eyeing it appreciatively. Apparently she’s pleased enough with the fact it is mostly solid gold and gives you one smoke bomb. You handle it as carefully as you can, placing it inside your robe’s pocket. You were a stupid, sentimental fool for wanting it just to remind you of your discussion.

From the adjacent hallway, you hear a couple of familiar voices begin to echo into the broiler room. You and Mona both glance at the two minions who enter the room and you feel a weight lift off your shoulders. Before you can go and greet them, Mona coughs behind you.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” is all she says, wry smile pulling at her lips. You return the small smile but it goes unseen beneath your mask.

Without further ado, you hop up to the minions and before you can even get to them, the tallest immediately gasps and crushes you in a hug. Although alien, the physical contact felt good in a way you couldn’t even begin to describe. God, were you really that pathetic?

“It’s been so long!” Draak cheers before releasing you. “We finally got permission to come back home, and—”

“Armor Outpost received reinforcements from the Explodatorium,” Styx interrupts, voice noticeably light even through the sigh. “About time, too; nothing much to do there since I’ve already worn out my personal stash of alchemy supplies.” He tips up his mask and offers you a small smile. “It’s good to be back home.”

 _Home_. You glance up at your friends and ignore the creeping pressure behind your eyes. You similarly look over at Mona who’s already busying herself and expel the tightness from your throat.

The Potionarium cannot be your home. Not as you are now.

Your friends then realize your fingers are wrapped and ask you what happened. You brush off their worries saying it was an accident in the lab, laugh it off and lie about it, blaming Plague Knight’s eccentricities. They accept it because they trust you and you can’t bring yourself to tell them the truth.

You’ll accept this place is home once you feel worthy enough. The void tells you you’ll never be worthy enough to exist in an alchemist’s haven when you could never hope to be an alchemist. You hate the fact the you of now is heart-broken at the prospect but the real you couldn’t care less. 

_It’s like your essence doesn't belong to you_.

 _...the self-destruction_.

It’s fine. You’ll figure it out eventually.

So you play along and begin walking alongside your companions, idly chatting. You wave goodbye to Mona on the way out, telling her, “Thanks for everything.” It’s benign but it gets the job done well enough. A knowing smile crosses her face but vanishes just as quickly. She hesitates before returning your wave.

You barely catch as her hand falters into a fist, dropping to her side. She turns around to gaze at the vat in the room, expression hidden from view. That’s all you can see before you turn the corner and leave.

**—**

The three of your were back in Draak’s room like you usually are during meal breaks.

“So Plague Knight decided to capture Armor Outpost so he’d have a closer strong-hold when he raids the most west-ward places?” You ask and they both nod. “What’s even out there anyway?”

“More land masses under the districation of the Order’s knights,” Styx answers. He waves a hand and grimaces, “There’s the Clockwork Tower where Tinker Knight lives, the armada of airships which Propeller Knight controls, and…” He grabs his chin before snapping his fingers. “Right, and there’s the wreckage of a massive ship to the south; turf of Polar Knight if I’m not mistaken.”

You want to let out a low whistle but you can’t really whistle. Instead, you settle for dryly commenting, “Wow. Is there anything you don’t know?” This earns a scoff from the boy, but the wry grin he has glows at the indirect praise. 

You spend a few minutes bantering back and forth, the jokes easing you into what you wish to bring up. Once the opportunity presents itself, you segway into your chosen topic by mentioning, “So I learned something interesting the other day.”

This immediately piques both their interest and you wonder it that was a bit too obvious. They knew you didn’t have many if any memories to call your own, and while that was still mostly true, the fact of the matter is you’ve deliberately left them in the dark.

Dropping the nonchalant act, you continue, “About the Hall of Champions, I mean. Plague Knight mentioned it used to be a library for old script, or something?”

Styx gains a pensive look before glancing at you. “During the transition period between Pridemoor and the preceding kingdom, there were only a few buildings remaining after that kingdom vanished.” Styx sighs and comments, “If it weren’t for those structures, any trace of that kingdom would’ve been lost to time.”

Draak pipes up, “So was old script the alphabet of that kingdom?” You’re curious about that too. You look over at Styx and find him shaking his head. 

“Not particularly,” he says, “Old script wasn’t unique to the previous kingdom. It was actually the common alphabet at that time; the founders of Pridemoor used it during the first few ruling generations. It fell out of favor once the linear, modern script was introduced as a sign of acceptance between Pridemoor and neighboring kingdoms. Good faith because it integrated aspects from those kingdoms, and all that.” He wrinkled his nose.

Draak hums thoughtfully. “But spoken language didn’t really change much, if at all.”

Styx sighs and states, “Common as a spoken language has been in place well before any sort of alphabet was inscribed for it. In fact, it’s a well-accepted theory Common was similarly created via integrating words used by many peoples, hence ‘common.’” The boy then mutters something about learning law and history in disdain before continuing, “It was more or less purely verbal as opposed to written, back in the bygone days.”

It was certainly interesting, that’s for sure. You can’t help but wonder why would they adopt a common - pfft - language other than to create better relations between different peoples, but history and linguistics are not your strong suit.

Still, the information was quite useful in figuring out your current predicament. 

“So…” You trail off, trying to collect your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Uh, why’s old script so important today—er, y’know, modern times?”

Styx sighs again and you feel slightly bad for abusing his knowledge. Before he can speak, you interrupt by inputting, “I-I’ve read about the preceding kingdom and, uh, how it was technologically advanced, o-or something…”

He doesn’t immediately reply and gains a thoughtful look. Furrowing his brows, he states, “It’s _because_ that kingdom was so technologically advanced that Pridemoor is _also_ technologically advanced. That is to say, our technology is leftover from the era of the prior empire; we’re essentially borrowing it since we don’t know how to recreate it.”

You pipe up, “So old script is the only way to learn how to operate this left-over technology?”

Styx shrugs. “Yes, but that’s not all. We both use and maintain their technology through the various manuals left over from that time, which are all written in old script. In fact,” he crosses his arms, “The only reason why the ability to read old script is so sought-after is because we cannot reliably construct the very same technology we’re using.”

“So you’re saying Pridemoor has learned to maintain the old kingdom’s technology from the manuals left behind,” you speculate, “But can’t actually produce it?”

You and Draak exchange a quick look before Styx answers. “For the most part, yes, but that doesn’t mean no one can build upon the blueprints, so to speak. Like Tinker Knight. Technology is always advancing.” 

You nod in silent agreement. Science and technology went hand in hand, but nothing was concrete; new discovers were always waiting beyond the horizon, and some of them may very well be paradigm shifts. 

“To summarize,” Styx begins after pausing, “Old script is a necessary tool in maintaining the technology left over from the previous kingdom. Beyond _that_ , old script was the predominant alphabet used during the foundation and subsequent rise of alchemy.”

You can’t help how your face contorts in concentration as a sudden thought strikes you. “Y’know, it kinda makes sense, the old technology and alphabet, I mean.” When you’re met with Styx’s confused glance you quickly clarify, “In relation to alchemy.”

Since he was still obviously confused, you continue explaining, “Like, I’ve been reading alchemy recipes from an old script book, and many produce a sort of fuel for either aircrafts or other similar machinery. Considering how those machines work, with how they internally combust the fuel in order to use it, then that means—”

Styx’s eyes light up in recognition and he smacks a fist into his other hand. “Therefore it’s likely the explosive properties utilized by modern alchemy owes their existence to that technology.” He exchanges a quick look of awe with you. “That’s—that’s _brilliant_.”

Another thought strikes you and before you can fully revel in the boy’s praise, you question, “But if alchemy came into existence during the time of the previous kingdom, coupled with the fact alchemy is an amalgamation of both science and magic...but magic back then was considered wrong or otherwise sacrilegious...then why—”

“No no no,” Styx interrupts. “If anything, that adds more credentials to your theory. While modern alchemy is considered a mesh between science and magic, back during its rise it was only propagated to be a unique science; no magic involved.”

“Wait,” you interrupt. “But a bunch of old script recipes use transmutation circles to stabilize the ingredients; aren’t transmutations circles literally the manifestation of using magic?”

“Well, given our current understanding of magic, yes,” Styx admits, “But back then it was still considered a part of the science of alchemy; y’know, it was both physical and could be willingly manipulated. Since it was ‘real,’ they could formulate laws and such around transmutation circles even if they didn’t truly understand their machinations.”

Draak then chirps, “So then alchemy was basically chemistry…?”

Styx nods feverently. “Precisely. Magic was accepted during the foundational era of Pridemoor due to its miraculous abilities. But yes, the preceding kingdom was substantially averse to the use of magic...if I recall correctly, its people believed magic to be analogous to the power of the gods.”

He pauses, furrowing his brow. “If a mortal were to use magic, then it would be considered a slight against the gods and in turn devastation would be wrought upon the people...or so they believed. Either way, their perception of using magic is inverse to our own: back then it was considered selfish whereas nowadays it’s thought to be selfless due to its healing properties…”

After a brief pause where you and Draak exchange probably impressed looks - again, he’s wearing his mask - Styx admits, “From what I can glean, it just seems like the previous empire was simply paranoid if not exceptionally judgemental toward those who deviated from the norm.”

“You sure do know a lot about this mysterious kingdom,” Draak comments. He then places a finger to his chin and begins tapping it thoughtfully. “Say, what was this kingdom’s name, anyway? It seems so important but…”

You look over at Styx and he simply shrugs. “No one knows for certain. Considering how it seemingly vanished overnight, I can only assume to remember its name would incite a similar occurrence with any other proceeding kingdoms. Y’know—” He idly waves a hand, “‘curses’ and all that.”

Curses, huh? You’ve had enough of those to last you a lifetime. Perhaps literally.

“So it was basically forgotten over time?” Draak questions. When Styx nods, the dragon simply shifts in his seat and puts his hand down. He then murmurs, “Seems kinda weird since it provided the foundation for a lot of the things we use today.” 

You remain silent but internally agree. It was a shame if technology, much less anything wasn’t given proper credit. 

Curiosity picks at the back of your mind until you can’t ignore it any longer. Breaking the silence, you hesitantly ask, “Aside from the Hall of Champions, are there any other monuments left over from the previous kingdom?”

Styx gains a strangely pensive expression, lips curling into a scowl. “The Tower of Fate has been here since it’s fall.”

Quietly, voice seeped in concern, Draak whispers, “...Styx? What’s—”

Draak doesn’t get the opportunity to finish. Instead, Styx’s green eyes glint almost maliciously in the lavender candlelight of the room. “I was _there_ ,” he mutters, “In the beginning, once Plague Knight was recruited into the Order, he—I was sent to the Tower as a sign of allegiance.” 

His glares out at the air in front of him. “I cannot use magic as well as I’d like, but even with my dulled sense I could _feel_ the malevolence the structure housed. It was…” He narrows his eyes. “It was _awful_.”

He slowly releases a breath and you resist the urge to pat his back sympathetically. You don’t press the issue and instead wait to understand where this conversation is going.

Draak breaks the tense silence. “...I’m sorry,” is all he says.

Styx calms down enough to revert back into his usual, stoic expression. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

The dragon pauses, raising a hand, clenches it into a fist, before finally admitting, “I know what it’s like, too.” You and Styx both snap your heads up toward Draak and he replaces his hand to his lap. 

“...Dragons live a long time,” he explains carefully, “And we are naturally drawn to power. Why else would I be so happy under Plague Knight?” He laughs but there’s no cheer. Unperturbed, he continues. “I may be young, but even I can sense the sheer power the Tower has; I’ve heard one of our kind has already pledged himself to the Enchantress.”

You take every word like water to a man trapped in the desert. The fact you were getting your answers in a roundabout manner was gratifying but to hear them from your two closest allies? You almost curse - haha - your stupidity for not thinking to ask the inhabitants of this world about its history, history which seems to have directly affected you.

Draak scratches the side of his neck. “But overall, even _we_ don’t really like going over there—to the Tower and the land it’s built on, I mean. It’s…” He makes a wobbly motion with his hand. “It’s always been a kinda forbidden land to cross. I don’t really understand it myself, but it’s something to do with dark magic. Maybe it’s even a curse.” 

He trails off, wringing his hands together. “Something about never being able to leave if one treds there without an invitation...we tend to stay away from it, anyway. Maybe it’s foolish, but we hope time will wash away the land’s wounds.”

You land a confused look at Draak. “Is it really that simple? Wait long enough and everything will just...disappear?”

“Nothing’s every truly concrete,” Styx supplies. “Even the enchantments placed on Arcana are not impervious to time. But it takes far longer for them to disappear if they are bound to a physical object. Still, everything wanes over time, even the most malignant of curses. ”

You glance at the boy. “So things will change no matter what? Even those enchantments which span over space _and_ time?”

Styx nods once. “Things always move on, one way or another. As with the fall of the prior kingdom and the modern province of Pridemoor, even the kingdom which may proceed this one; things will change because they have the time to do so. Entropy, really. We just hope the Tower and its owner are no different.”

Its owner—? Right; the Enchantress. Unable to stop yourself, you ask, “You think the Enchantress will just—fade away into obscurity?”

The boy shakes his head. “No one know who the Enchantress is, nor what compelled her rise to power so quickly. We know next to nothing about the woman.” He sighs before looking at his lap. “But considering her birthplace and subsequent territory, it’s…well, it’s likely she has some connection to the prior empire, given our current knowledge.”

Quickly, Draak inputs, “She’s powerful; unnaturally so. We...we think she’s not really a person so much as a...I guess the physical manifestation of the land’s curse? Like the animated will of the previous kingdom? Since it _did_ vanish in what we assume to be a tragedy…” His voice trails off and he gives a helpless shrug. “Maybe there’s a reason it’s called the Tower of _Fate_.”

Another silence encompasses your trio before Draak breaks it again. “I dunno, but it would explain it if she were connected to the previous kingdom; being its lingering will, I mean.” He shrugs again. “Maybe it’s angry it was usurped by Pridemoor? And then the Tower lures people in, forcing them to remember...or something.”

You pause. “So the Tower of Fate _is_ likely a relic from the previous kingdom?” Your questioning gaze lingers on Draak before shifting over to Styx, who simply nods.

He heaves a heavy sigh and mutters about his studies back home. “Lending credence to the theory of the Tower being a relic from the bygone empire is that it’s general architecture is completely unlike our own. In fact, before Pridemoor restored the Hall of Champions into what it is today, it and the Tower bore similar gothic aesthetics, like stained glass windows and tiered spires.”

You note how quickly he moves the topic away from the Enchantress, but you don’t say anything.

Styx pauses, tapping on his chin as he probably recalls his time studying as a nobel. He snaps his fingers and continues, “Right...and based on the general physical characteristics of the Tower, it seems as if it was something akin to a cathedral or the castle of the royal family, judging by its sheer height.” 

He idly scratches the side of his face. “The people of that kingdom were highly religious back then, and believed the taller the building, the closer it was to the gods in the heavens, or something like that. Makes sense they would dedicate the tallest building to the royalty if not the gods themselves, _if_ the Tower is the remnants of a cathedral. Who knows, maybe it was both?”

Draak mutters a low “wow” and you can’t help but be similarly impressed. Unable to contain yourself, you quip, “Jeez, did you have _any_ free time when you were a nobel?”

Styx levels the most deadpan gaze at you. Draak lets out an ugly snort that you unfortunately replicate.

Electing to ignore your antics, Styx sighs. “Further adding evidence to the Tower being a relic of the previous empire is the Lich Yard, since it’s the only other place with such large amounts of malevolent energy,” he mentions. “But the village that used to be there was wiped out in a massacre led by the Enchantress or Specter Knight; witness accounts don’t seem to agree in that regard.” 

Both Styx and Draak eye you but you don’t so much at wince at the knight’s name. Not like you were going to divulge you were pretty ‘friendly’ with the ghoulish knight, for lack of a better term.

Styx then shrugs. “Since the Tower and the Lich Yard share similar energies, it’s also likely they share similar events which _caused_ that energy. Coupled with the fact the previous kingdom seemingly vanished along with all its people...you get the idea.”

Indeed you do. You don’t know what might have caused a kingdom to disappear overnight, but then again you don’t know enough to even postulate. Instead, you find yourself drawn to the fact this mysterious kingdom was responsible for housing remains which bore an uncanny importance to you. First, the Hall of Champions and its former role as a library for old script tomes, then the Tower of Fate lingering since that time...

Really, you were just curious about why the Tower of Fate was so damn important and why you feel this intense itch inside the void. Like you had to scratch it or else you’d go mad. You recall your first few weeks in this world and remember the eerie familiarity when you eyed the Tower, almost like it was commanding your curiosity. 

You so desperately wanted to _know_ why the Tower had been a pillar - pfft - ever since your arrival in this world. Ever since you woke up, you had unconsciously sought out its vistage in the distance, and while it did cause some unease it provided more than enough familiarity to ground you. 

If it weren’t for the fact the Tower was the meeting place for the Order of No Quarter and their leader the Enchantress who wants you for some reason, you’d like to go and see it for yourself.

As it stands, you’re still a pawn in the game Specter Knight is playing against the Enchantress, and beyond that you’re an important source of experimentation for Plague Knight. Too much risk for no guaranteed reward.

Specter Knight’s words of death echo dimly in your mind. You’ve too much to lose now. Perhaps later, but now was inconceivable. 

Quietly, you mutter, “...I guess the nail in the coffin, so to speak, would be if there was a library of old script hidden away inside the Tower.” 

Styx doesn’t immediately respond but relents enough to comment, “Yes, it would basically prove the Tower was left over from the previous kingdom. While I did see a room containing multiple shelves of books during my admittedly short stay, I didn’t check to see if they were written in old script. Too busy being run around doing trivial tasks.” He pauses. “Kept my mind off the feel of the place.”

“Hmmm,” you rub your chin in thought. “Were there any other minions stationed at the Tower?”

Styx openly scoffs before rolling his eyes. “A few other of Plague Knight’s minions, sure, but you could hardly get around with how many of the other knight’s lackeys were there.”

“Whoa!” Draak says from his desk, “You mean other knights have minions too? And here I was thinking I was lucky to be working under a knight…” His voice trails off and you resist the urge to laugh at the painfully apparent pout underlying his tone. 

You can’t help the guttural guffaw. “He may have ‘knight’ in his title, but he’s more a mad bomber than anything. Besides,” you idly wave your hand, “Aren’t knights supposed to be sworn to the throne or something?”

Styx just gives you a deadpan stare while Draak actually giggles. 

The raven-haired boy just shakes his head. “Knights are titles given to those who are, on average, stronger and more publicly notable compared to your every-day adventurers. In reality, knights can be virtually anyone if they decide to work up their identity.”

Styx pauses again before mentioning, “Those ‘knights’ we fought at the Armor Outpost were really just foot-soldiers.”

Draak manages to quell his laughs enough to snort out, “Besides, your definition is _really_ outdated; in fact, I think the last time it was used was during the times when the big bad dragon kidnapped the princess!” His voice grows higher in pitch until he can’t keep his swelling chortles at bay. You wonder why he didn’t seem to be bothered by what he said before dismissing it as either his general quirkiness or a dragon’s inside joke.

Your thoughts then travel to the various what-if scenarios; what if you were instead enlisted by one of the other knights of the Order? Would they be as unhinged or even more so than Plague Knight presents himself? What if you actually found that chivalrous hermit? Or what if you fell down into that ravine of spikes? 

It doesn’t really matter. No use in speculating on things which could never happen as you imagined; the past is the past, and you can really only look forward.

Eventually the conversation between you three dips into more inane things, like Styx’s apparent grudge against this one hoverhaft - one of Propeller Knight’s minions? - because of their fan…? Something to do with winds interfering with Styx’s job as messenger boy. You don’t truly understand, but laugh at the image conjured within your mind.

You soak it all in while you still have the chance.

**—**

It takes another day for your fingers to heal enough without the need of bandages. With your hands now adorned with the usual magenta gloves, you could actually act like a proper lab assistant and help out Mona.

“Pass me the _acidum salis_.”

Once the vial containing the clear solution has been poured into the larger beaker filled with what looks like a blue vitriol, Mona begins whisking it together. You watch as the liquid transforms through a multitude of colors - first blue, then teal, green and so forth like a rainbow - before it eventually settles into a mostly translucent white. 

What a letdown. Kind of like this whole assistant-business. You’re already painful aware of laboratory procedures, and frankly, you’ve had enough of mixing to last a lifetime. Not even the companionship was doing it for you. 

If anything, the distance between you and Mona was like two sides of a ravine, or two celestial bodies. She was the moon and you the tides, ebbing and flowing in accordance to her influence. The fact she was more concerned with her experiments and barely took a moment to speak anything else aside from commands seemed to deepen this chasm. 

She was distant and you couldn’t really bring yourself to care. Just like old times, you suppose. 

And if you were being honest, you were beginning to wonder why you should stick around in yet another lab, a prison of your own making. You...didn’t belong. You couldn’t use magic, therefore you couldn’t be an alchemist. 

You were _useless_.

Maybe you had your worth as something to be used, to be dissected like those miraculous little microbes you used to work with. Maybe you had _wanted_ to be seen like them, to be as inherently useful as them, to have that same potential to help so many people, to have that much _worth_.

But. 

Instead—

You hear him before you can see him, tittering about back in the recesses of the tunnel leading inside the boiler room. It doesn’t take long for his ringing laughs to grow louder as he bursts closer, apparent by the few muted _booms_ peppered throughout his laughter.

Mona then takes notice of the small errant knight and leaves her bench in favor of approaching him. You continue sitting on your stool but turn around to watch.

“Geez Plague, looks like you lost a fight with an iceberg,” Mona dryly comments. You can't help but internally agree; his mask’s beak has tiny icicles hanging from it like jagged teeth.

Plague Knight simply titters nervously in response. “Me? Lose? _Bah_! But I won’t deny the - _hee hee_ \- _cold_ reception from Polar Knight, heh…! Speaking of which…”

He trails off into another small bout of giggles before reaching into his satchel and retrieving a bulbous flask. Uncorking it, he presents the swirling mass of bronze and pale blue clouds with a flourish. The gaseous orb is brilliant, as expected.

Mona congratulates him and preps the essence by putting it through the machinations of the Dynamo Decanter. Once it’s fully stabilized and resting inside the largest vat alongside the others, Plague Knight notices your presence.

“Oh! Heh heh, minion!” He wrings his hands together as if scheming something, but knowing his mannerisms he’s just happy. “I must say, the bombs I constructed from your diluted essence proved to pack quite the - _hee hee_ \- _punch_ , ahahaha…! Imagine if they _weren’t_ diluted, _hee hee hee_...!”

He rambles on about how potent they were, how they were easily more powerful than his cluster bombs and perhaps more destructive than his Big Boom Arcana. His cheers are gleeful and he giggles at the thought of constructing more bombs which aren’t diluted just to see their capabilities. 

—you’ve perpetrated more suffering, and potentially more death.

Something twists inside your gut painfully at his indirect praise.

If essences carry the central characteristics making up the foundation for their host, if everyone is a clean slate at the onset which is sullied only by living, by experiencing, then…then essences are not clear-cut. They are malleable, they are elastic. They can _change_ , given time and perception. Your essence is no different. 

Like those microscopic miracles, like the very same science you live and breathe by, you’re worth is determined by how destructive you are. Just like the science you adore, your essence is simply there, an unruly extension of yourself.

You have yet to change its base characteristics into something else, something...something where you are not doomed to malicious repetition. 

Maybe things aren’t as fine as you thought.

A cough interrupts your thoughts and you redirect your attention to the small knight still standing before you. His boot taps against the cobbled floor like he expects you to voice your personal thoughts, considering it was you essence he was essentially weaponizing.

You can’t bring yourself to be joyous, not with how things are. Tongue heavy with disdain and tone flat with indifference, you state, “I’m glad it was useful.” It’s not a lie, not really.

Mona shoots you a questioning look, but you ignore it and look away at the Dynamo Decanter. 

You look up at the gimmering orbs and wonder if you hadn’t willingly joined Plague Knight’s ranks, would you have ended up being used anyway? 

As Plague Knight returns his attention to Mona, retelling his antics away in frozen territory of who he also referred to as ‘Beard Knight,’ you begin ignoring them. Turning your back to them so they can’t see how tight your fists are, you ponder your place in all this.

Or more accurately, you wonder if this is what you _want_.

...you don’t even know _that_ much. How pathetic.

Sighing, you resign yourself to the same facade you’ve worn for what feels like forever. You will smile, wave, and play along if it means you will get what you desire. You will lie, manipulate, and stall if it means you will get what you desire. 

One thing at a time.

First, your memories. Everything else can wait.

It’s fine.

It takes only a few more minutes of chattering for Plague Knight to separate his attention away from Mona, curiosity now firmly glued to her workbench. Nearly skipping over, he perches himself where Mona was previously. You continue ignoring him in favor of resting your head in your arms, eyelids drooping behind your mask.

A sharp clap near your head forces you to perk up and offer a frustrated glance at the tiny knight leaning over the table. “Heh heh, wake up, minion! There’s no time to sleep when we have time to _experiment_ , _hee hee heee_...!”

You grumble out that your grogginess was technically his fault for taking your essence—you potential, and it only makes logical sense you’d lost that same potential in rest, but the complaint falls of deaf ears. Instead, Plague Knight simply begins tampering with Mona’s stuff and apparently gauges whatever concoction she was working on, judging by how he stares at it.

“Oh, this is _wonderful_ , Mona! Truly a wonder of a buffer, _hee hee hee_...! With this, we could further stabilize any troublesome essences, heh…!” He doesn’t even glance in your direction as he says the last part. 

_Troublesome_. 

Okay, that’s fine.

Mona rolls her eyes and approaches the table, humming thoughtfully. “Figured I might as well do _something_ since you bought out all my wares.” Her voice gains a noticeable softer edge when she then comments, “Thanks, by the way.”

“Feh!” Plague Knight waves a hand and places the flask back down. “ _Hee hee_...Really, it’s _me_ who should be thanking _you_ , my - _hahaha_ \- beloved partner in crime!”

The tall woman actually smirks whilst smugly crossing her arms. Her cheeks grow a shade darker with what you can only assume is a blush - what? - as she comments, “Of course; we’re in this together.”

Plague Knight idly nods before returning his attention back to the various wares scattered across the bench. You don’t pry when you note the faint pull in Mona’s smirk and the now troubled furrow in her gaze. Knowing you’re not the best at offering comfort, nor knowing what could even cause Mona - strong, independant, dependable Mona - disquiet, you decide it’s better to just pretend you’ve never noticed. 

You can sort of guess, basing your assumptions on your own personal feelings. But you two are nothing alike, and in reality you are nothing close to as confidant. It doesn’t concern you, yet...it causes you concern.

A quick conjuration away and back, Plague Knight shoves his personal tome of old script at you. Taking it with heavy hands, you begin reading the passage he’s assigned for today’s experiment. Similar to what you did days earlier, it’s a recipe meant to create fuel for aircrafts specifically designed for short, controlled bursts. 

Once instructed, you begin to read off all the necessary ingredients and potential warnings for the final product; handle with care, store in airtight container, keep in cool place, so on and so forth. You barely register the command for you to read the first step, too enthralled with the idea of a nap. But you obey orders, reading the procedural steps and watches with feigned interest as both Plague Knight and Mona work tirelessly to craft a new type of bomb.

You notice there is little to no chatter between the two of them. It’s rather odd; usually they’d be chatting up a storm. Well, a storm as far as Mona was concerned. She was wasn’t into idle chit chat unless she wanted to gain something from the other party, a fact you observed when it came to you. Even then it was apparent you were being scrutinized from the onset.

“Mona, the _spirits of hartshorn_!”

She does so without a second glance or the subtle smile she normally wears when conducting alchemy at Plague Knight’s side. Her gloved finger briefly glance his own uncovered ones, and there is no subtle flinch or hesitation.

“Mona, the _litharge_ , if you would.”

She passes the vial with the same stoney visage she’s worn throughout the experiment, lips pressed into a firm line and dark eyes awash with unrelenting focus.

“Ah, Mona, _heh_ , the _vitriolic acid_...”

She hands him the corked flask while her eyes remained glued to the central beaker housing all the added ingredients.

Even Plague Knight, for all his perceived obliviousness, is beginning to register Mona is not in the mood for frivolous talk. His commands grow less warm in their delivery, his bouts of seemingly random laughter cease, and his flustered attitude disperses. Instead, he adopts his teaching persona and acts as stoic as Mona currently presents herself, automatic and rigid. It reminds you uncannily of your pastime in the lab. 

The remainder of the experiment is conducted in a straightforward manner. It takes a good half hour more of time to finish the compact bomb, simmering yellow solution resting neatly in its casing. 

Plague Knight pockets the capsule in his satchel before turning to Mona, who’s already begun to clean up. “Aha, I’ll be gone for a bit, _hee hee_. Still more essences to gather!”

The woman briefly looks up and nods. “Right.” Then, after a small pause, she states, “Sorry I can’t do any more for you; notebook’s been completed.”

The knight hums thoughtfully before asking about the ‘notes in the margins.’ Not curious enough to pry much less care, you resume your work of wiping down the lacquered tabletop. A few moments later you hear Mona request he “stays safe” before the distinct but muted sounds of Plague Knight skipping away greet your ears.

She returns and collects the sullied glassware, placing it in a compact circle. You stop wiping, knowing she’s going to transmute the gunk away. After the brief flash and sharp noise, she tends to reorganizing them on the nearby shelf. It takes another couple minutes and before long you’re dismissed. 

Making your way out of the boiler room, you hear the familiar hum of the Dynamo Decanter. If you listen closely enough, you think you hear Mona murmur, “There must be something I can still do…” but make no comment; it’s not and never will be your place. 

As you prep for one of your usual afternoon naps, you find yourself hoping Plague Knight won’t return for some time. Not after today’s lab work, not after being reminded it could very well be your future.

Just another cog in the machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think the last chapter was lore? _HA_. 
> 
> Also; this chapter is over 10,000 words. Hopefully this will sate you guys until next time.
> 
> And, if I'm allowed to be a sap for a moment, I just wanna say _wow_. I honestly did not expect so many nice things to be said about my story thus far, and least to say I'm floored at the positive reception this has garnered. As it is, I'm just glad someone found some enjoyment reading what my imagination has conjured ( _haha_ ) up!
> 
> Thank you all so, so very much! I hope you'll continue to enjoy this as it progresses!


	12. The Puppeteer

Suffice to say, something wasn’t right.

At first, you didn’t question the fact a messenger minion was sent your way to inform you that your presence in the lab wasn’t needed. After all, with Plague Knight off and about beating the crap out of the other knights of the Order to steal their essences, you didn’t conduct laboratory. Usually, you’d just wait for his return and expected command to hold another session for tinkering with old script recipes in his personal collection. 

Without Plague Knight to direct or use you for his own purposes, you were largely left to your own devices. As such, you tended to shadow both Draak and Styx in their own personal alchemy endeavours. For the most part, this setup was, at one point, deemed helpful in learning the ins and outs of the very same alchemy you were supposed to be practicing later on. Y’know, _before_ the whole deal with being cursed and all.

It was during today’s shadowing that your inkling only grew, especially as the day moved from dawn well into dusk. It was also considered usual for Draak to be pulled aside for use of his corrosive capabilities, or Styx to be commissioned into transmuting multiple bomb casings from raw materials like sand and iron. Neither of those expected summonings occurred. 

While this could be explained away as a result of Plague Knight’s absence, something was still distinctly… _off_.

Apparently, the suspicions weren’t allocated to your small triade. Other minions began to gossip in the hallways, spreading rumors they oftentimes cited as fact. While both Draak and Styx thought them to have at least some truth, you didn’t know what to believe. Maybe you were oblivious as all hell - and sure, that may as well be true - but since _when_ did Plague Knight have this supposedly massive crush on the Magicist?

Sure, both Draak and Styx poked some fun at you for being so ridiculously out of the know when it came to everyone else, and sure, you were socially stunted bordering on socially inept, but there was really no need for you to have overlooked something so obvious to literally _everyone besides you_. You may have a difficult time humoring the predicaments of everyone else’s perspectives, but you refused to believe you were _that_ oblivious.

Not to mention there was literally no proof Plague Knight was keening for the Magicist. As far as you knew, which admittedly wasn’t very much, their limited interactions was him just asking for ‘magic upgrades,’ and buying bundles of health tonics. Hell, you swear you also witnessed Plague Knight accepting a swiped bundle of the potions from that brutish new recruit.

You and your friends enter the feeding commons just before the dinner rush and grab a quick meal before heading back to Draak’s room. It’s obvious the minions are split in whether or not this is a good thing or not: good because they don’t have to work that much but bad because now there’s no one around they can shove their work onto. You ignore them in favor of staring at the strangely darkened boiler room as you pass it.

Mona’s been gone all day.

She left no note detailing where she could be, nor any sign of when she would return. Amongst the constant mutterings of your fellow minions, whenever she left to gather specific or rare alchemy ingredients, she was also kind enough to leave a message detailing her actions. Being a highly capable woman in her own right, she never failed to return after a collecting spree within hours. 

Even when she hid the Potionarium from the village overhead, playing the bored, morose woman, she was never gone longer than an hour. 

Then there was the fact you had departed from yesterday’s lab session hearing of Mona planning something. Given her general demeanor throughout the entire experiment, it seemed as if she was feeling inadequate in this entire scheme of Plague Knight’s. Not that you understood enough, but from what you gathered Mona and the tiny knight begun this quest for the ultimate potion _together_. And since Plague Knight bought all of her research…

...maybe she was desperate to help in some other way.

The gnawing worry in your gut curls uncomfortably. While you didn’t categorize your relationship with Mona as ‘close,’ you still considered her as something more than just another acquaintance. That and the fact you were her underling, and so far she’s proved to be a compassionate boss, even if her general attitude suggested otherwise.

But you forcefully quell the urge to tell someone else, primarily your closest friends. Mona’s business were hers and hers alone, and you wouldn’t - don’t - want anyone else to interfere. The woman is capable if not resourceful; well, considering who she works with, she sorta has to be. All in all, you don’t doubt she’ll accomplish what she set out for. 

So you just gossip alongside your companions, hoping the dinner you grabbed will fill the strange emptiness in your stomach. 

“I hope Mona’s okay…” Draak says, voice subdued. “She’s never been gone this long.”

Styx nods once and his green eyes narrow thoughtfully. “She failed to leave a note as she normally does. I have no idea where she might’ve gone, but I still hope she’s safe.”

You nod along, trying to will away the oppressive atmosphere. “Maybe she’s gone to the Explodatorium or something?”

Styx shakes his head before taking a small bite of his bread roll. Swallowing, he states, “Mona never really leaves the Potionarium or the village. If she does go collecting, it’s only ever around the nearby provinces, like the plains or the Lich Yard.”

Draak sighs at his desk. “She’s never been gone this long and I’m worried. I just…” He hunches in on himself like he feels guilty, “I don’t know if she could defend herself if something went really, _really_ wrong.” Winding his fingers together, he then says, “I kinda wish she would’ve at least told us something.”

You and Styx both murmur your agreement. After a small pause, you pipe up, “Regardless, she’s smart enough to get out of any trouble; I’m sure she’ll be fine.” You hope, but you don’t voice your concern.

Both Draak and Styx absentmindedly nod before returning to their meals in silence. You quell the urge to tell them about Mona’s lingering words from the previous day and internally insist it would be betraying her privacy. That and you don’t want your beliefs of Mona’s capabilities to falter any more than they admittedly have. You logically console yourself, realizing she knows more than all three of you, so she should be fine.

Once you’ve finished your meal, you accompany Draak and Styx back to the central hub. What little chatter you had going amongst yourselves stops dead when you realize neither the Magicist nor Percy were at their respective stations, thus Styx couldn’t buy any more chalk. You exchange worried glances with your companions before a faint rumbling beneath your feet quickly catches your attention.

The three of you exchange a quick look before quickly heading to the broiler room. You stop in the darkened hallway and continue to spy into the now lit room. Sure enough, the familiar towers of spinning wood greet your eyes before delving into the floor. What comes as a surprise is seeing Plague Knight teetering on one of the falling platforms. It clicks into the floor with a thunderous noise, and the tiny knight stumbles off with uneven steps.

Quickly gathering his bearings, he looks up imploringly at the final pillar which has yet to settle. With a loud series of clicks and groans, it too begins to descend. You can’t really see it due to the low archway. 

“Oh, Mona, heh, good—I thought—” Plague Knight’s reedy voice cuts out abruptly and you wish you could see the expression beneath his mask.

It becomes abundantly clear why his words were halted when you notice the figure standing atop the final lift was definitively _not_ Mona. Instead, your heart drops once the familiar figure of Percy greets your prying eyes. 

“Wooo-o-o-oah!” The horse cheerfully cries. “I almost forgot how unsteady these torque lifts were, _haha_!” It’s then when Percy seems to notice the shocked form of Plague Knight, to which he chirps, “Greetings! It seems Mona has yet to return and thus I’ve taken up her duty to man the lifts!”

You exchange presumably, as all three of you were wearing your masks, shocked expressions with both Draak and Styx before returning your attention to the broiler room. 

Since Plague Knight was still silent, Percy then crosses his arms and places a...hoof under his chin. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’ll need someone to operate the Dynamo Decanter as well! Is there anything you needed, my friend?”

It takes a moment for Plague Knight to respond with a stunted, “N-no.” 

Then he begins to make his way into the hallway where you are hidden and you hurry back to your dorms, likely to discuss the turn of events. Unfortunately, before the three of you can sneak away Plague Knight notices your presence, calling out, “Minions…?”

Master of improvisation that he is, Styx quickly turns around and nonchalantly greets, “Boss, you’re back! Were your travels amiable?”

You opt to remain silent and peek at Draak, who nervously begins to tap his fingers together. 

Plague Knight stares at you three before silently nodding his mask in affirmation.

While it’s almost painfully obvious the alchemist is lying, Styx simply nods. “Good to hear.” He then looks up at the admittedly tall horse standing at Mona’s personal shelf and idly comments, “Now to get those pieces of chalk…”

With that, Styx begins to make his way into the boiler room, you and Draak sticking uncomfortably close like second shadows. It’s rather awkward as the three of you pass by Plague Knight, who simply watches you, mask following all the while. But as soon as you enter the boiler room, you risk returning a peek and instead see the small alchemist’s back as he walks away into the central hub. 

You and Draak share another silent look while Styx digs through his pockets. Eventually, he retrieves a small satchel of jewels, requesting several ‘wands’ of chalk. Percy is chipper as always, chatting away without caring to notice how Styx doesn’t really respond. Once the small parcel of white chalk is within Styx’s grasp, the three of you quickly leave for fear of being caught up in Percy’s chatter.

As soon as all three of you are walking back to your dorms, Draak heaves a mighty sigh. “Hooo, that was scary; I thought for sure boss was gonna hurl a bomb at us or something!”

You look up inquisitively. “Why would you say that?” He didn’t look particularly angry...

Styx makes a strained noise. “Errr, probably because it was pretty obvious he wasn’t...in the best of moods.”

“Huh.” Maybe you _were_ pretty oblivious. Then again, Plague Knight was obviously expecting Mona, almost like he met her while he was out and about. Maybe something else was going on?

“Y’know,” Draak begins after a brief pause, “It’s almost like boss seemed like he was waiting for Mona. Maybe he already knew she was gone…” Guess you weren’t the only one to pick up on that.

Styx just nods once. “Sure seems that way. And considering his apparent disappointment when it was Percy in the broiler room and not her, maybe she was supposed to arrive before him?” He looks back at you and Draak, both of you shrugging helplessly. He puts a finger to his chin. “When do you think she’ll return?”

You begin shrugging again before stopping yourself. “Dunno, but I have faith she’ll be fine. If she’s capable of dealing with Plague Knight all the time then I’m sure she can overcome any obstacle.”

Draak giggles at your comment. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” He then scratches the side of his neck, commenting, “And hoping she’ll come back soon. I don’t want to deal with Percy any more than I have to; he won’t stop bugging me about what’s under my mask!”

You can’t stop the snort, but you pat Draak’s arm consolingly. 

The three of you stop by Styx’s dorm so he can pick up a few personal books for practicing his transmutations. While he doesn’t mind you seeing his room, you can certainly tell why he is averse to your trio hanging out it there: it was a _mess_. Stacks of books here and there, miscellaneous piles of alchemy ingredients, even thankfully empty bomb casings littered the floor. For someone who used to be a prim and proper nobel, the stark contrast was amusing, to say the least.

Once he managed to grab the book and bag of supplies after sifting through the piles of random things on his desk, Styx shuts his door and heaves a small sigh. “Who knew having personal freedom meant making poor decisions?” 

You and Draak share a hearty laugh and then the three of you head to the bursting auditorium. Your group converges to your usual spot, a few minions already using the room waving or greeting as you pass. While Styx opens his satchel and begins setting up shop, you remove your burst potion from your pocket. You look up at the few minions bursting around the mobile platforms, already jealous of their periodic vaults.

Shaking the pear-shaped bottle in your hand, you look over at Draak and see his own potion in hand as well. He meets your gaze, nodding once before shooting a thumb up at the ceiling. “I’ll bet you 1,000 gold I can reach the top first!”

“Hell no,” you immediately reply. “I’m poor as dirt. In fact, I’m roughly 99% certain I have no money after buying a smoke bomb from Mona.”

Draak visibly shrinks. Pouting, he huffs, “Aww, that’s no fun.” Then he tilts his head and places a finger under his chin. “Say, when was the last time you went collecting anyway?”

“Ergh, I have no idea.” You wave your hands idly, careful not to accidentally set off your burst potion. “I don’t even remember when the last time I left the Potionarium was.”

“During the raid on the Armor Outpost,” a voice intones below you. 

You and Draak look down at the kneeling figure of Styx, who’s meticulously arranging his ingredients, likely in the order of their use if the open pages of his book are anything to go by. His mask doesn’t even tilt up at you when he then states, “Unless you left before we came back, that is.”

With that, he begins drawing a complex transmutation circle. A few seconds later, he quips, “You don’t have to keep me company; I’m smart enough to know you two are far more interested in each other—” Draak lets out a feeble groan and you snort, “—and bursting, _heh_.”

Childishly, Draak taps his foot and retorts, “It’s not our fault we don’t understand all, all _this_.” He gestures to the intricate array of circles and all the symbols littering them. “I don’t know about them, but it certainly makes _my_ brain hurt.”

Uncomfortable with how close this particular conversation is getting to the fact you currently can’t use magic and therefore can’t transmute shit, you shrug nonchalantly. “I can’t draw a circle to save my life. ‘Sides, I already do enough lab work, thank you very much.”

“The constant threat of Plague Knight blowing you up just not doing it for you?” Styx dryly inputs. “Need more unnecessary excitement to potentially kill you?”

“Hey!” You snap. “Excuse you, but we all know I don’t need anyone else to cause myself possibly irreversible bodily harm.”

You smirk as you watch Styx stop drawing his circles in favor of slapping a hand over his mask while Draak’s snorts turn into haggard laughter in the background. 

“Maybe it’s best you _do_ get out more,” Styx says once Draak’s laughter simmered down.

A thought which had ingrained itself into you the moment you finished your discussion the other day, you perk up. “Speaking of which, do you think it’s possible to get sent to the Tower as a scout or something?” You immediately note how abruptly quiet your friends become at the mere mention of the pseudo-skyscraper and attempt to remedy it. Faking a stunted chuckle, you admit, “I need a break from all the constant lab work; it’s just so repetitive, y’know?”

You and Draak look down imploringly at Styx, who simply sniffs. He mutters under his breath, “I should’ve never said anything…” before heaving a mighty sigh and meeting your gaze. “Look,” he whispers, “I know you’re desperate to regain your memories, and given you apparent interest in the Tower, it seems likely you’ll find something of importance if you go there. But—”

His motions stall and he eventually sets aside his chalk. Mask tilted up at you, he rubs the excess residue from his gloves as he harshly continues, voice still quiet, “—I sincerely doubt you understand the gravity of the situation you’re trying to put yourself in.”

You want to retort that you know what you’re doing, that you’ll be fine so long as you get closer to remembering anything at all, but Styx holds up a single finger and the words die in your throat. “Just—just hear me out,” he requests. “I know the place since I’ve been there, worked there. While it’s true Plague Knight sends only his most combat-ready minions there, and while not many dare to trespass in the Enchantress’s domain, it’s...essentially, it’s still a suicide mission.”

Ignoring the sharp intake of breath Draak takes, you bite out, “That doesn’t matter; never did. Tomorrow is never promised anyway.”

Styx can’t see the glare you’re leveling at him, but he seems to sense it regardless. Still quiet, he replies, “Only those who’ve nothing left to live for willingly leave for the Tower. Us minions of Plague Knight are no different; we’re _supposed_ to lay down our lives if an intruder ever presents themselves.” His shoulders fall as a sigh drips out from beneath his mask. Solemnly, he states, “Even I doubt Plague Knight would throw us away like that, but with the Enchantress there…”

He doesn’t finish his statement but doesn’t need to. As the leader of the Order of No Quarter, it’s likely she’s enforcing her underlings to sacrifice _their own_ underlings. 

The Knights, their minions; all expendable to her. Specter Knight seemed to make that abundantly clear.

After a moment, Styx collects himself enough to explain, “While I was sent there not as a scout, but to transmute traps and the like, I _was_ there to see how the Enchantress would...punish those who did not properly complete their task.” A harsh shudder wracks his frame and a guilt implants itself in your chest.

He picks up his chalk but it hovers uselessly above the circles drawn onto the floor. “...if she doesn’t completely break their will through manipulation or fear, then she kills them. We—” Styx sighs and draws another sigil into the circle, “—us minions don’t matter, in the grand scheme of things. Not with _her_ around.”

An uncomfortable silence surrounds your trio. Draak breaks it, trying to rid it by offering, “Then it’s a good thing we’re working under Plague Knight and not… _directly_ under her.”

Even you can tell it’s not enough to count as a silver lining. Styx just basically confirmed your worst fears of being nothing more than another pawn to be played, another tool to be used, another expendable cog.

Styx sets aside his chalk and reaches for the scattered powders. Sorting through them, he states, “Yes and no. All the knights of the Order answer directly to her, and so do we by proxy. Then again, it’s not like she’s particularly...overbearing.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “She pretty much allows the knights free reign to do as they please since they’re already on a leash as it is.”

The boy pauses for a moment. "...really, it just seems like she enjoy's toying with everyone. Likes to watch them squirm."

A bright flash and sharp _crack_ later, a precipitate sits where Styx’s transmutation circle was. You and Draak exchange another look before deciding to kneel besides your friend, knowing this conversation would be a bit longer than you initially anticipated. Really, you just wanting to know _how_ you could get sent to the Tower and possibly infiltrate its secrets and hopefully, your memories.

Setting aside his recent product, Styx runs a finger over the linear script of his book and nods to himself. “Besides,” he continues in a notably lighter tone, “ _We’re_ exceptionally lucky given that Plague Knight has his own goals; goals which he is only using his place in the Order to achieve.”

“He’s a traitor,” you quip. Both Styx and Draak turn to you almost questioningly and you curse your stupidity; was that not common knowledge? Judging by your friend’s unrelenting stare, you guess that _nope_ , it’s _not_ common knowledge. Of all the things to be confident about, you just had to go and get loose lips about the most secretive thing.

Realizing the finality in your tone gave away that you were absolutely certain of that fact, you still try to deflect from the possibility that either or both Styx and Draak will catch on. If they question why you knew Plague Knight’s traitor status, then they might also grow privy to the fact you’ve been keeping multiple other, more personal aspects secret from them. Like the fact you’re a traitor yourself, what with Specter Knight and all.

Draak leans in before hashly whispering, “Why would you say that?”

Fumbling, you manage to stutter, “I—I thought it was, uh, well…” You have your hands in some vague motions, “Isn’t he fighting the other knights of the Order? Isn’t—doesn’t that count as, as...I dunno, treason?”

You watch as Styx and Draak share a quick look, feeling more put out by the second. Then Styx addresses you, voice strangely sympathetic. “Do you mean how Plague Knight...saved you from Specter Knight…?”

If he was giving you an out, then you were sure as hell doing to take it. Idly, you fiddle with your burst potion’s bottle and look down at your lap. “Y-yeah, I guess. But they’re both members of the Order, right? So they shouldn’t be fighting, right?”

Another look is exchanged between your friends and it feels like they’re both judging and feeling sorry for you. 

“Look,” Styx begins, “Casting aside the fact _you_ seem to think that Plague Knight thinks you’re expendable, and that maybe, just maybe he _didn’t_ want you to die—” Draak snorts besides you, “—you have to consider that the Order is not exactly...shall we say, friendly with one another.”

Draak seems to catch on to your hidden but still present confusion. “Might makes right; at least, that’s how it’s been ever since the Order was formed.” He then whispers, “Y’know, that and even humans are pretty territorial; I hear the knights fight over land!”

Styx releases an ugly sound bordering between a snort and scoff. “More or less. With Plague Knight, he’s…” He waves his hand. “...not really a people person. He prefers to keep to himself most of the time, hence why he never even tells us minions what he’s up to.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I gathered as much working with him. Can’t hold a decent conversation with the guy ‘cause he laughs between every other word.” You wrinkle your nose in distaste. While it wasn’t completely true - the alchemist was a pretty okay teacher when he wanted to be - Plague Knight was still a mess when it came to anything regarding his fancy; tangents galore with no consistency. That or he was threatening you.

Styx nods in agreement. “You learn to deal with it. Unless you’re talking about the times when he, presumably, comes close to blowing you up during your lab sessions.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” you moan, “Do _not_ go there.” You cross your arms and huff to yourself, voice a crude imitation of Plague Knight’s own, “‘The bigger the explosion, the better the alchemist.’ Pfft, more like _no_ alchemist…”

You share a few chuckles with your companions, the mood slightly lighter. 

Draak suddenly snaps his fingers before looking down at you. “Say, it’s been a few months since you’ve joined, right?” You hesitate, starting to shrug before looking over imploringly at Styx who sighs and nods in affirmation. Stifling a small laugh, Draak continues, “So why haven’t you gone to the Iron Whale yet?”

Before you can even question what that means, Styx quickly inputs, “Because this whole operation—” He gestures to the room around you, “—is supposed to remain a secret. Plague Knight probably wants to keep any newly recruited minions secret, too.”

“Why’s that?” Draak cocks his head.

Styx doesn’t move but you can guess the look of distaste beneath his mask when he answers, “Because there’s not a whole lot of us, and Plague Knight probably doesn’t want to alert the Enchantress to our presence. Y’know, if there’s more of us then she’ll probably coerce boss into sacrificing us for her cause. I guess he’s just...looking out for us in a weird way. From his perspective, it’d sure be a waste to kill off even a few loyal minions.”

“Oh.” And with that Draak looks back at you. “So I guess you’re supposed to collect jewels when you go collecting? Considering how you enjoy going out, I just figured you prefered making money that way...”

Your lips twist into a grimace. After a beat you admit, “I, uh...what’s the Iron Whale…?”

Styx and Draak look at one another in what you guess is surprise. “You’ve never heard of the Iron Whale?” Styx inquires. “What about Treasure Knight. He’s...he’s the _treasurer_ of the Order? We’re supposed to leave once a month to collect our payment for working for the Order…?” You say nothing and he continues, murmuring to himself, “You’ve never heard of this?”

Shaking your head, Styx heaves a heavy sigh. “Okay. Okay; I—” He trails off before muttering to himself, “I can’t _believe_ I never explained that…”

Having heard him, Draak pats Styx’s back consolingly before turning to you. “W-well, like Styx just said, us minions go to the Iron Whale to receive our payment for working under the Order and its knights. Sorry we never explained it, but I guess I was kinda curious why you didn’t have any gold when you’ve been enough to have earned a lot of it by now…”

You take it all in while ignoring the stone sitting in your stomach. For some reason, being left in the dark about that was putting a sour taste in your mouth. It’s not like you were particularly hard up for money, but the fact no one thought to tell you...were you really that unimportant?

Pushing aside your thoughts, you say incredulously, “Why does the Enchantress need a treasurer for? Doesn’t she rule through fear tactics and the like, or something?”

“Likely to quell any uprising before it can begin,” Styx states. “Monetary compensation tends to be quite sating for most of the masses.” He leans down and picks up where he left off, drawing more circles onto the cobbled floor. “‘Course most us alchemists can make plenty of false gold using sawdust and mouse skulls, so gold is never really a big deal.”

“Pssh,” Draak scoffs, crossing his arms. “Your fool’s gold is so obviously fake it’s surprising how often others fall for it. Besides, it’s not uncommon for shopkeepers to accept any alchemist’s payment since there’s always a likelihood it’ll be fake.”

Styx lets out a stunted laugh. Quietly, he playfully scolds, “Not all of us are dragons who hoard gold for a living.”

“That’s a stereotype, I’ll have you know.” Draak huffs once but you can hear the smile in his voice.

Strangely, you take in all this information regarding how the Enchantress treats her underlings and find it vaguely hilarious how it’s sort of like...she’s a mob boss, or something. First, she pays all the minions, likely a relatively large amount, if Styx’s never-ending supply of goods said anything. Then, if the money isn’t good enough, she immediately opts for a more tyrannical rule through fear. All in all, she makes Plague Knight look like a saint in comparison.

Then you remember she’s looking for you.

Hmm...sounds like you should probably reconsider your plan of going to the Tower.

The void within stirs restlessly at the thought. As much as you’d just love to kick back and relax, so to speak, you’ve already acknowledged you’ll never be satisfied with the way things are now. Maybe it took a few instances of a certain reaper belittling you and your blind loyalty to Plague Knight, and sure it took some time of personal introspection, but where you stand now is no different from the very same monotony you escaped from.

No. You couldn’t stand the possibility. Sure, you’ve got the fact you can read old script going for you, but it’s just a fancy gimmick. Then there’s your essence; it’s basically the only reason Plague Knight wanted anything to do with you, aside from the fact he could gain another mook to do with as he pleases. 

Maybe Styx was right; maybe you were still just another expendable minion. Specter Knight certainly seemed to think so.

...if anything, it wasn’t as deep a blow as you thought it’d be.

You’ve climbed through Plague Knight’s ranks and served him faithfully, and all it’s earned you is a faint but present reminiscence of your past job. Like back then, you’ve nothing to call your own aside from a knack for disregarding your morality for the sake of science. Working alongside the knight is no different from pipetting and plating countless trays while the machines did most of the work for you.

Then there’s the fact you can’t use magic. Considering alchemy was the crossroads between magic and science, what use were you in an alchemist’s lab when you didn’t even meet the preliminary requirements? All you could do was read some forgotten alphabet which so happened to have been used during the rise of alchemy. You were like an instruction manual more than anything, always on the sidelines, unable to directly assist.

Coupled with the fact you still didn’t know who you were, not really...what place was there for someone like you in alchemy? You were a husk of your former self, whoever that might be, because you had either directly or indirectly violated the most common clause of alchemy as a whole. Really, it was like the universe was saying alchemy just wasn’t right for you.

But if you _did_ manage to recollect your lost memories, who’s to say they couldn’t explain why you’re like this now?

The Enchantress wanted you, that much was certain. Then that must mean she knows you, one way or another. And if she knows who you are, then chances are she knows who you’ve _been_. She might very well hold the answers you’ve sought since you’ve woken up.

Therefore the place the Enchantress resides might also hold some of the answers to your condition. 

As dangerous and foolish as it might be to seek your answers in enemy territory, you were desperate. Being at Plague Knight’s side wasn’t worth the fact you were nothing more than a tool for him to use as he pleases, another cog in his machine. But if you managed to remember, then there might be a way for you to overcome your curse and then, maybe, you can learn to use magic. 

Hopelessly idealistic as it might be, you dream of being able to remain at the Potionarium to become a real alchemist. It’s a logical course of action; you’ve already a home here, you’ve the means to survive, in relative comfort no less, and you’ve a position besides one of the most prominent if not brilliant minds in the entire valley of Pridemoor. While it may not be back in that sterile lab, you’ll gladly accept such a position in this world if you can.

You just have to leave the nest for a bit.

All you need to do is think of how to bring up the topic of getting Plague Knight to agree sending you as a potential scout to the Tower. Although it’s not like you can tell him you have a possible safety net in the form of Specter Knight - you were worth more alive than dead to him, after all - you can play up the fact you’re either curious or bored while holed up in the lab. Both were true enough, and if Mona fails to return soon, maybe you can levy that against him so you can leave to go searching for her.

And if you _were_ just another expendable minion, why not use that as a viable excuse to leave for the Tower? You’re just one of many, right?

Plan set and a sense of relief flooding your system, you hop back up to your feet, much to the surprise of both Styx and Draak. Gripping your burst potion, you cheer, “Okay, time to burst!” You disregard how he jumped away from your exclamation and glance down at Draak. “Even if I have no gold, is the bet still on the table?”

Draak laughs after a moment while Styx fondly shakes his head. Standing to his normal towering self, Draak looks down at you and holds out his burst potion. Chuckling a bit, he says, “I know you haven’t done anything for a while, but _jeez_! You _really_ need to get out more.”

Shrugging since he’s technically right, you just hold out your own potion. “Hey, all the more reason to keep up with my bursting!”

“Alrighty,” Styx blandly says from his position on the floor. “Why don’t the two of you move somewhere _else_ so you don’t destroy all my stuff.”

You recall the incident he’s speaking of and share a quick look with Draak. You share a stunted giggle with him, much to Styx’s chagrin if the boy’s abrupt and heavy sigh is anything to go by. Luckily for everyone, you all were equipped with chemical-coated, blast resistant robes. 

“Okay, okay,” Draak chirps, already moving away. “Try not to blow yourself up anyway!”

Styx huffs before returning with a sharp, “And _you_ guys try not to break your legs falling.” With that he turns back to his transmutation circle, leaving the both of you to your own devices.

Taking your normal place at the edge of the lowest platform, you glance up at the familiar auditorium and all the mobile lifts. Idly, you shake your burst potion and feel its warmth pressing into your gloved hand. You look up at Draak and see his is also ready to activate. 

Smile clear as day in his voice, he states, “First to the top wins! Now, on the count of three. One…Two… _Three_ —!”

You smile, releasing the pressure pent up inside the bottle in your grip. With a familiar, abrupt shift in momentum, you feel your body being flung forward. Here, with your feet no longer restricted to remaining on the ground and the wind brushing past your robes, you can feel at least the smallest bit free. It’s one of the reasons you’d be fine with remaining at the Potionarium, under Plague Knight’s rule. 

You just have to be comfortable enough with yourself before you can truly have everything secured.

**—**

“Arrgh! Dang it!” Draak cries as he lands gracefully besides you atop the highest platform. He hangs his head in defeat and you wheeze out a laugh, having barely managed to climb onto the platform before him. Once he collects his breath, he huffs, “So that makes...what, my four wins to your two…?”

“Awww man,” you groan, “Do you _have_ to phrase it like tha-ah-at?” 

Draak just laughs under his breath, shakes his head and shoots you a thumbs-up. As his breathing rights itself, he chirps, “It’s first to five, right? Gotta keep track!”

“Okay, fine,” you begrudge, taking a seat and dangling your legs over the edge of the platform. “Just—just let me catch my breath. _Hooo_ —”

Draak takes a seat next to you, releasing a large sigh but says nothing. The two of you sit in amiable silence before you flop backwards, enjoying the lulling sensation of the perpetual motion of the platform. Clutching your burst potion, you exhale slowly and admire the massive chandelier hanging overhead. 

A muted _boom_ echoes below and you hurriedly sit up to try and spot who goofed.

Draak is already snickering to himself before pointing down. Following his finger, you spot none other than the familiar figure of Styx, surrounding by a streaks of ash and soot. You can’t help but giggle alongside your friend as you watch the tiny figure below you begin to clean up, probably muttering angrily to himself all the while. It probably doesn’t help matters that most of the other minions in the room are also watching with interest.

Stifling your giggling enough to say, “Okay, I’m going to see what’s up,” you readjust your grip on your burst potion. Agitating it, you watch all the platforms and other bursting minions below you with practiced ease, waiting for an opportunity to present itself— _there_.

No sooner than you recognized the opening did you push off your platform, embracing the freefall with open arms. You maneuver yourself through the air as you’ve done many times before, enjoying the adrenaline coursing through your vessels. You’ve forgotten just how exciting bursting is.

Once you’re close enough to the ground, you hold your burst potion down and press the valve, releasing the internal pressure. It’s strong enough to slow your fall into non-lethal territory, and just as you feel your momentum pull you down into the ground you flap your oversized sleeves. You stall midair for a brief moment, before landing squarely on your feet, none the worse for wear.

A second after you land do you hear the telltale _poof_ of another burst activating above you. Sure enough, Draak lands nearby and the two of you quickly approach a struggling Styx. The poor boy’s still coughing and the closer you get, you can hear the frustrated words spilling from him.

“—one. Just—just _one_ more scruple and it would’ve be _fine_ , but nooo, I miscalculated and now everything’s for _naught_ —” You try to abate the laughter caught in your chest to no avail, devolving into a crude fit of giggles at his expense.

Styx is still grumbling to himself, even as he turns around to see you and Draak having a laugh. You can’t see the glare under his mask, but boy can you feel it. You snort and continue laughing, stomach beginning to ache as you take in how his entire front is discolored in shades of black. 

Eventually you stall in your antics enough to start helping Styx clean up the mess he made. You and Draak periodically exchange glances and muted chuckles as you clean up the sooty residue clinging to the cobbled floor like a carpet. 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually all the gunk is washed away from the ground. Just as you’re wringing out the rag into the nearby bucket, you hear both Draak and Styx sharply inhale behind you. Curious, you look up from your kneeling position and register the stiff postures your friends have adopted, courtesy of the tiny knight standing before them.

“B-Boss…!” Styx actually stutters. Belatedly, he tries - and fails - to pat away the thick coat of soot adhering to his entire front side. Giving up, he admits, “Just a small mishap! Aside, we’ve already cleaned up.”

Plague Knight remains silent, opting to instead look up at the towering figure of Draak. His mask stalls for a moment before eventually sliding over to your form, still sitting by the bucket and wrestling with a wet rag. A firm squeeze later and a few drops punctuate the quiet. Setting aside the rag, your stiff knees creak a bit as you stand up, dusting off your robes in an effort to look presentable.

Another beat passes before Plague Knight snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes, I recognize you lot now.” 

Well...that was certainly a way of greeting someone.

He doesn’t say anything more, instead waiting as all the other minions in the room hurry over to your little group. Soon enough, about a dozen or so minions stand around, murmuring amongst themselves and openly pondering about the supposed disappearance of Mona.

As if trying to dispel the strangely uncomfortable air, Plague Knight waves a hand. “I’m here to inform you all classes and experiments are cancelled until further notice.” 

The utter stoicism present in the normally chipper voice of the knight clearly signals his poor mood from earlier has not extinguished. You quickly share silent looks with your friends and find them nervously wringing their hands. It seems like all of you had realized this was not a normal occurrence, _especially_ so if Styx of all people looked startled by the news. Then there’s the fact every other minion in your ragtag group burst into animated whispers as soon as they heard.

“And—” Plague Knight continues unperturbed by the general disquiet, “—that your duties haven’t changed. Dismissed.” 

With that, the knight moves to leave the room but is instead interrupted by another voice. From behind you, another minion asks, “Hey boss, where’s Mona? I need her help with something.”

Plague Knight stops dead in his tracks, flipping back around. Voice almost accusatory, he quips, “What was that?”

The minion doesn’t repeat their question, instead remaining mostly silent aside from a small “eep”. Another silence blankets the crowd and you curse your growing curiosity. Considering Plague Knight doesn’t make a move to leave, apparently too wrapped up in the possibility to let loose a few bombs, you swallow the urge to repeat the same question on everyone’s minds. 

“Do you know when Mona’s coming back?” Hello mouth, I’m foot.

You barely register how nearly all the other minions quickly back away from your position. You also regret speaking up as you watch Plague Knight’s posture stiffen exponentially. While you do expect him to reach into his satchel or conjure up a bomb to throw at you, what you don’t expect is for the tiny knight to instead grip his staff tighter, take a small leap, and smack you over the head with it.

A hiss of pain escapes your clenched teeth. Releasing a muted, “ _Owww_...” you rub the spot and watch as Plague Knight spins his staff a few times before returning it to his side.

“ _Th-that’s none of your business_!” He squawks angrily. 

Aside from the fact it sorta _was_ your business as one of her underlings who gave a damn whether or not she was okay, you begin to mentally flip through your current knowledge of the situation. For one, Mona being gone all day wasn’t expected, nor was her not returning as Plague Knight thought she would. This gives credence to the idea Plague Knight had seen her while he was also out and about. And given how oddly hostile he’s been since he’s returned to the Potionarium…

Deciding to dig yourself deep to test out your hypothesis, you ask, “Do you—Is she okay?”

The answer you receive is another swift swing of Plague Knight’s staff directly into your head. 

“ _Ackh_ —!” Honestly, you should’ve expected that. 

You’re pleasantly surprised when Plague does manage to reply, albeit in a strained voice, “M-M-M—s-she’s perfectly _fine_ ; she’s just busy with—with something else! And that’s _all_! D-dismissed!”

All of you take a moment to just watch Plague Knight scurry away. Once he’s out of sight, you turn to your friends and find them snickering, even Styx who simply replies with a flippant, “Don’t know when to stop, do you?” 

Still rubbing the sore spot on your head, you just sneer at him and snidely remark, “Everyone was thinking it.”

You don’t mention how your seemingly offhand comment has fully cemented that your hypothesis is correct. Even if Plague Knight had run into or otherwise met Mona while he was traveling, the fact he also knows of her general well-being but still refuses to acknowledge her abrupt leave...The strangely defensive manner in which he referred to Mona also leads you to believe _something_ occurred between them, likely something big if Plague Knight’s attitude and Mona’s disappearance say anything.

The various minions around your trio erupt into their own theories, voices still hushed even though the knight is long gone. Sure enough, their garbled words - so similar to those shared in those bright hallways, in that lab back then - confirm these circumstances to be extremely abnormal.

But you’re not one for idle gossip. So you wave off your friends in favor of returning the borrowed cleaning supplies to their rightful place. Hefting up the water-logged bucket, you ignore the slightest sting when you notice how easily both Styx and Draak turn around to speak with the others, not even gracing you with a parting goodbye. You rationalize it’s to be expected, given they’ve been here far longer than you, but being dismissed hurts no matter how much you’d like to believe otherwise.

You lug the surprisingly heavy bucket through the cobbled halls, the familiar sound of running water greeting your ears. Without decorum, you dump the bucket’s contents into the stream flowing beneath the walkways of the aqueducts and continue to the teaching auditorium. 

Although you had no idea where he was going, the fact you managed to catch Plague Knight rifling through the cabinets was something you hadn’t expected. He doesn’t take notice of your presence until you hesitantly place the empty bucket on the cobbled floor. 

Plague Knight startles, jumping away from the cabinet and juggling a couple cluster bombs. Catching them, he redirects his attention toward you. “M-Minion? What are—”

You cut him off by dragging the bucket, a cacophony of ugly sounds bounding around the largely empty room. Placing it besides the cabinet the knight is going through, you turn to him and shrug. “Just returning this.”

“Oh. It’s _you_.” Surprisingly, Plague Knight’s voice isn’t overtly hostile, but there’s clearly an edge to it. Turning around to continue searching the shelf’s supplies, he remarks, “Come to pester me some more?”

“Uhhh,” you drawl, wince going unseen beneath your mask. “Nnnn—”

Well, it certainly wasn’t the proper time to ask given his poor mood and it wasn’t even something you were going to do in the first place, but he suggested it so you might as well commit. “—actually, yeah. Er, not exactly ‘pester,’ but...I-I have a question, so…”

Plague Knight doesn’t immediately respond, instead opting to deposit a few more cluster bombs and some other bomb type filled with a golden solution onto the nearby table. A few more moments of silence, broken by the sounds of glass hitting glass, pass in the tense atmosphere.

Although fully committed to asking your question, you figure the knight would at least give any indication to let you know he’s willing to hearing it. So you stand there like a jackass, twiddling your fingers nervously. Mentally, you pour over how to approach the topic of you potentially going to the Tower of Fate.

“ _Well_?” Plague Knight’s reedy voice cuts through the quiet. He doesn’t make any comment on your abrupt flinch, instead continuing, “Are you going to tell me or what?”

“I—uh, I just…” You nearly smack yourself, internally chastising yourself for opening like that. Taking a quick breath, you recompose yourself enough to instead lead with, “I asked around about the possibility, a-and I think I’m suited for the position, so maybe I— _you_ could—”

The knight just turns around to continue gathering bombs and bomb supplies, clearly not interested in what you have to say.

In a rush, you spit out, “—maybe you could send me to the Tower as a scout…?”

The words have the desired effect of capturing the alchemist’s attention, as evidenced by how utterly still he goes. Another beat passes and Plague Knight slowly turns his head to look up at you. From his deathly silence, you have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking, but hopefully he’s carefully considering—

“No.” With that, the knight continues plucking empty bomb casings from the shelves. 

Your heart plummets into the bottom of your chest. Even if you hadn’t really given a very astute presentation listing the pros and cons of sending you off, surely there wasn’t enough time for him to automatically assume you weren’t fit for the job? Given your track record, you’ve managed to successfully survive multiple encounters with multiple knights of varying but exceedingly powerful calibers...then again, all of them left you incapacitated or nearly dead in one instance.

Quelling the sheer hesitance you feel from leaking into your voice, you ask, “Why not…?”

A part of you is afraid of hearing the answer, but you need to know. If anything, you’re using your emotions - those familiar feelings of amounting to _nothing_ \- to guide your desires. You just have to disallow your emotions from ruling over all your senses. They’re fine leading you, but logic should be used in their place to gain understanding and hopefully, find resolution.

Plague Knight does not stop what he’s doing when he answers, almost blithely, “I forbid it.”

“That’s not _good enough_.”

Your heart is pounding painfully in your chest, each _thmp-thmp_ emanating the sickening feeling welling within the void inside. It so desperately wants to come out, to have a proper outlet for once, but you _can’t_. You—you have to reel it in. Don’t let him see; _don’t let him know_.

Pretending you’re good enough when you’re not _hurts_.

Glass clinks together. Plague Knight’s mask slowly turns to look at you. Quietly, he intones, “My word isn’t good enough?”

Tongue dry and throat tight, you respond, “I asked _why_ ; I want a _reason_.”

“You seem to forget,” the knight continues, eerily quiet, “Your _place_. You’re _my_ minion, so _my_ word is all you need!”

“Isn’t that more of a reason to send me off?” You plead, most likely uselessly. “If I’m just another minion, it wouldn’t be that much of a loss—”

“ _I forbid it_!” 

Plague Knight’s abrupt screech fills and dissipates in the silence. The void inside whispers in the dead air, _you must seek the Tower_. You _need_ to know, so you may feel whole, complete.

“...then why keep me here?” You cannot see his face, but he cannot see the glare marring your features. “What use am I if I cannot pursue my purpose?” You step closer. “If I cannot read the old script you desire if no experiments are done?” Another step. You hiss, “What good am I, then?”

“I—I…” Meekly, the knight looks down. Idly, he begins to fiddle with his fingers. 

“I know my place,” you seethe, unable to cage the anger of _denial dismissal shame_. “I know I am nothing more than a tool to be used as you please—”

“That’s—that’s _not_ it…!” Plague Knight grips his staff with both hands, holding it almost protectively in front of himself. “Y-you’re not a tool—!”

“It’s fine.” The words immediately die in his throat at your interruption. 

You repeat, voice now dull, “It’s fine. I don’t mind; if I can be useful, then that’s enough.” _Or so I thought_. “But I can’t be useful until I know everything.”

His posture is no longer stiff. You look at him, ignoring the ugly feeling inside at the familiar sight. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything about myself. I need to _remember_ ; I can’t…” Your shoulders sag in fatigue, unused to being so open. “...I can’t go on like this.”

Briefly, a swirling crimson mantle flashes in your mind. Yes, he was right; you can’t be satisfied, not with way things are now.

“And…” your voice grows soft. “...I want to know why I can’t leave.”

Silence reigns as the two of you stare at one another. Finally, Plague Knight relents with a tired sigh, mask tilting away from you. “...you’re not _fit_ enough to be a scout. Every time—” He holds up a finger just as you move to retort against his words, “—or _nearly_ every time you’re sent out, you fail.”

“That’s not—” You begin, but the alchemist’s tilting voice interrupts you.

“Yes, yes, while you may achieve the overarching goal, you allow yourself to be another casualty in achieving that goal.” His normally lilting voice is stagnant if not accusatory when he goes on to state, “ _You_ are ill-suited to becoming a scout for the Tower.”

“Then at least allow me to go collecting, to do _something_!” You clench your hands, nails biting even through your thick gloves. “Why have me hang around if I can’t do anything—”

“Absolutely not!” Plague Knight immediately shuts your words out. Raising a single finger at you, voice clearly betraying his frustration, he says, “ _You_ are not permitted to leave the Potionarium! And that is _final_!”

“Why?” You spit, “Why not send me away? What use am I if I cannot read old script? What use am I in an alchemist’s haven when _I cannot use magic_?”

“Wh-what…?” Plague Knight’s voice cuts out briefly. “What are you talking about?”

Internally, you scoff. “Don’t tell me Mona—” You ignore how the knight reels back as if slapped, “—didn’t tell you.”

Plague Knight says nothing, instead twiddling with his fingers again. His lingering silence speaks volumes of the woman’s abrupt leave. Eventually, he gathers enough courage to stumble through his confusion. “I-I-I don’t—er, tell me what…?”

You try and fail to not garner any enjoyment at the thrill of seeing this knight wane before you. Being in control is a rare treat, but unfortunately you cannot savor the moment. Too often you’ve been subjugated by others you’ve no enjoyment in this pettiness.

Briefly, the image of you laying across the cobbled ground of the Lich Yard, bleeding out before its keeper flashes in your mind. Then of your prone form lying among emerald bricks as a cerulean clad knight leaps away, then that too dissolves until you see the black and crimson spade coming down at you from the heavens, then—

“That I’m _cursed_.”

—the visage appears, the same faceless crowd, the same echoed pleas for mercy, for forgiveness, and you cowering before them.

You never want to feel that betrayed, that weak, that _broken_ ever again.

Therefore, you need to recover your memories. After all, to reexamine one’s own shortcomings is to look back on the foundations which birthed them. Thus, your past was necessary if you were to truly feel whole again. 

Maybe then you’d be content to exist.

Plague Knight’s stunned silence breaks away into a confused reply. “Er, c-come again…? You’re cursed…?”

“I couldn’t…” Your voice fails, as is usually does when admitting to your own brokenness. “I couldn’t activate one of Mona’s transmutation circles. She said the magic—I rejected it. Can’t use it.” You hesitate briefly before also stating, “She thinks my memories were...were a part of the price.”

Voice hollow, you state, “Alchemy is the combination of magic and science. If I cannot be an alchemist, then why am I even _here_ for?”

“M-minion…” Plague Knight stutters, shoulders sagging. 

While he’s at a loss for words, you fill the silence again. In a likely fruitless attempt to bargain, you plead, “So at least let me useful the only way I can. _Please_.”

Silence. The knight fumbles with his fingers, refuses to meet your gaze.

“I...I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” 

God, it _hurts_.

Trying to ignoring the tightening of your throat and the mistiness clouding your vision, you manage to choke out, “ _Why_...?”

“You…” Plague Knight heaves a sigh, before continuing on as if he hadn’t just broken the foundation from beneath you, “Your skillset is too uncommon to waste by sending you off. Your essence is a precious resource which cannot be obtained otherwise.”

He then levels a stony stare at you. “I can’t afford it if you left.”

“...so that’s it.” You can’t help how much his words make you feel utterly useless. He...you’re just a fancy gimmick to him, right? That’s what he said, right…?

A bitter chuckle escapes. He perks up at the noise, but you don’t really care. “...is this because Mona’s gone?”

Plague Knight immediately reels back as if struck. “Whu-what…? I—no, no no, that’s...that’s not it, _hee hee_...! As I said earlier, s-she’s simply—”

You rear up on the alchemist. Putting as much scorn and disbelief into your tone as you can, you snarl, “If she can freely leave, then why can’t _I_?”

“Because you’re just a _minion_!” Plague Knight screeches, attitude now thoroughly soured as it was before. Just as abruptly, his voice grows quieter and subdued. “And _she_ —she…she _was_ my partner…”

 _Ah_. There we go.

“...you are afraid I will desert you, too.” Considering the way the knight hunches in on himself, your hypothesis is spot on. “...I do not want to; I have everything I need to live _here_. Only a fool would throw away this security. And although I do not understand as much as I’d like, I have an undeniable fondness for alchemy. But…”

You heave a sigh. You’re tired of this cycle. “...but I can’t accept _this_ —” You gesture to your surroundings, “—unless I can actually contribute. With Mona gone and you crafting the ultimate potion, I am left with nothing, especially if I cannot leave.”

The familiar tightness of your throat chokes your voice. “I need to at least _try_ and remember, so I don’t—don’t have to feel like _this_ all the time.”

“Besides,” you go on, “Weren’t you and Mona trying to help me before? What’s changed?” _Please don’t say there isn’t any hope for me_.

Instead of answering, Plague Knight simply states, “The Tower won’t help you.”

 _Liar_ , hisses the void.

Sharp unease curls in your gut. “...How would you know?”

“I…” The knight’s voice trails off, unsurely. “That...it doesn’t matter.” 

He turns his back to you instead, finished with obtaining his bombs and was not packing them away into his satchel. Without looking back at you, he simply states, “You can’t go to the Tower.”

Your brows furrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Think nothing of it,” Plague Knight says. He flicks his fingers, conjuring away a bomb with muted _fwoof_ of green mist.

He...he’s not even paying attention anymore. He won’t even _look_ at you. 

The void writhes.

Gripping the hem of your robes like a lifeline, your voice trembles out from between your teeth. “Tell me…!”

The image of you groveling before Specter Knight comes to mind. There’s no wounds marring your body but your insides are aflame with agony regardless. 

You’ve given _everything_ to Plague Knight, but he never…! Instead, it was the man who set out to kill you who has given you new life, new purpose. Here, you were nothing more than a fancy pawn who would inevitably waste their life away pursuing something they could never attain.

Frustrated tears begin to cloud your vision again, pooling before dripping down your cheeks. “Please…!”

Plague Knight stops his motions, shoulders sagging as he releases another sigh. “The Enchantress is looking for someone.” Your heart nearly skips a beat. “I believe this person is _you_.”

Nearly shocked beyond words - honesty? From _Plague Knight_? - you murmur, “What…?”

The alchemist shakes his head, hood bobbing with the motion. He gives a stunted chuckle, “Heh, considering the circumstances I found you…and your essence... _hee hee_...it seems too likely.”

 _He knew_. Ever since—Specter Knight—Plague Knight _knew_. That’s why he sent you back from the Armor Outpost so quickly, why he hid you away in the depths of the Potionarium—he knew this _entire time_ and he _never told you_ —

“...what are you hiding?” Your voice is quiet but leagues of resentment boil over. “ _What else do you know_?"

Regardless of how much he’s manipulated you, how much he’s deliberately sabotaged your desire to seek out the answers you’ve sought ever since waking up, you want to _hope_. Hope he’s not keeping you on a leash because if you remembered, then you’d change. Maybe your essence, your _worth_ , would change too, that maybe his _precious_ resource would be eternally lost.

That he only cares about your worth and not _you_.

Just another fancy cog in his machine.

The hope alight in your chest cannot withstand the blizzard Plague Knight’s next words bring. “It doesn’t matter; what matters is that you remain _here_ for the time being.”

When you fail to answer, the void curling in disgust and bitterness—Specter Knight was _right_ —the alchemist simply states, voice disinterested, “Dismissed, minion.”

With that, he finishes packing up and turns around, brushing past you without a second glance.

Once he’s gone, a muffled sob echoes pathetically in the empty room.

You wonder if this is why Mona left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!
> 
> We're finally in the final stretch of the story, and things are finally falling into place, _ohoho_. Also this chapter's roughly 10.5k words long, so sorry for that. And as always, thanks for the comments!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!


	13. The Armed Vestige

Calming your erratic breathing was a daunting task, considering how utterly spent you felt. Even more mortifying than listening to your choked sobs reverberate between your ribs and throughout the auditorium was hearing intrusive footfalls.

“...are you okay?” The relief is slight when you recognize Draak’s voice.

Composing yourself as much as you can, you try to swallow the fear and rage at them for eavesdropping. Filtering those emotions from your voice, you tiredly ask, “How much did you hear?”

A palpable pause. Then, “Not much, to be honest.” Another beat is interrupted by a harsh lurch of your chest, attempting to quell another sob. Draak continues unbothered, “We were wondering what was taking you so long with the bucket, and then...well, we heard boss screaming…”

His words die and you’re only so thankful for the fact a mask hides away the ugliness that comes with crying. Turning around, you see both Draak and Styx standing there. Their masks tilt ever so slightly toward one another and an awkward air emerges. 

“I take it your appeal to scout the Tower wasn’t...successful,” Styx says, voice neutral.

You resist the urge to hiss at him for stating the obvious, but it’s not his fault you can’t chase your dreams; rather, your memories. The fault lies with a certain plague doctor-themed knight, all because your assets are worth more than you as a fucking person. That...was _inexcusable_. 

Instead you sigh, as if expelling all the anger twisting inside. “No.” You pause, weighing whether or not to reveal just how low you’ll sink to achieve your goal, whether or not to tell your most trusted confidants. They were your friends, perhaps you should actually extend that trust in their direction, too. “But…”

The last conversation you had with Specter Knight come to the surface of your mind. How he had inadvertently revealed he was using you the deliberately spite the Enchantress. How similar the both of you were, trapped in conditions you would escape if allowed. ‘A victim of circumstance’ no more.

“...I’m going to _remember_ , no matter _what_.”

Unsure of how to go about your declaration, you simply shrug off your friends reassurances that you would, given time. Instead you would dabble in meaningless work, wait until Plague Knight departed to retrieve another essence - why wouldn’t he if his ultimate potion wasn’t already complete? - and then make your move. Until then, you’d have to plan ahead.

You are so, so glad your mask hides the abrupt sway in your emotions, how quickly your crying eyes hardened and how your quivering grimace was now a silent snarl. Anything was better than crying like a pathetic nobody, even anger. Just like Mona said.

Directing your thoughts away from the fact the man you had continuously looked up to for so long turned his back on you, you instead take in a shaky breath. Internally damning how slow it is for the random lurches in your ribs to go away, you reassure both Styx and Draak you’re currently _not_ plotting potential treason. Placating their kind reassurances with your own, you say, “I know, I know, just…” A sigh. “I’m just tired.”

Draak and Styx share another look of what you assume to be suspicion, considering you were pretty transparent. That and the fact they had unknowingly eavesdropped on a conversation which left Plague Knight frustrated and you in tears. Putting two and two together wasn’t that difficult, really.

“Look,” Styx hesitantly begins, “I know you want to remember, but there’s no guarantee the Tower will have all your answers.” Ignoring how his remark makes the void stir, you continue listening with an impassive posture. “Besides,” here he actually looks around briefly before whispering, “Boss will probably keep an eye on you now that you’ve established your goals. Best...lay low.”

While you agree with his last statement, you make no comment aside from sagging your shoulders in defeat and heaving a small sigh. Whatever it takes to get them to back off from asserting that your goal is unreachable. 

“Y-yeah!” Draak chirps, obviously trying to lift the mood. “If you think about it, you could just...make more memories here.” 

Apparently he can feel the icy glare you’re sending his way because the dragon soon hastily retracts his statement. “N-not that your real memories aren’t important! I-I just—” Draak sighs, mask tilted down. Voice quiet and somber, he admits, “I just feel like if you leave, you won’t come back.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Plague Knight,” you respond, voice carefully stoic. “I have no plans on deserting if— _once_ I regain my memories. Regardless of how he may have insulted me by dismissing the fact I don’t even know who I am—” Both Draak and Styx make to say something but your ignore them, “—only a fool would throw the security he's freely offered back in his face.”

“‘Security’…?” Draak questions.

Styx humors him, explaining for you, “The fact we don’t have to worry about where our next meal comes from, or whether or not we’re protected; we have free room and board, so to speak. For the price of pledging my allegiance of doing work I actually enjoy, it’s basically a mutualism.”

Much too drained to keep up with their conversation and deal with your roiling but hidden emotions, you garner their attention with a small sigh. Once they quiet down, you bluntly state, “I’m going to bed.” With that, you make to walk past your friends and feel their eyes burning into the back of your skull. Pausing at the entryway, you carelessly add on, “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine.”

You can still feel their gaze searing through your back even as you sit down on your bed. With another muted sigh, you clap and the room is drenched in darkness. Tomorrow, you could plan your next move.

The void is lax as it churns. _Patience_.

**—**

As Styx suspected, Plague Knight remained in the Potionarium keeping vigil. While you sincerely doubted it was only your ‘misguided’ attempt to reach the Tower of Fate keeping him here, he made it clear you were essentially placed under house arrest. Why else would he deliberately assign you to remain in the central hub, under the watchful gaze of either the Magicist, him, or any other minions bustling around?

Really, you thought the entire thing was ludicrous. You don’t understand _why_ you, of all his minions, was so damn important. From what you learned from Styx and Draak, reading old script was rare but not unheard of. And your essence - the void inside - was literally an amalgamation of all the traits which made you _you_ ; really, it’d only beneficial if you could remember what happened that contorted your essence so thoroughly. 

Sure, maybe that was a bad decision since it _was_ pretty bad, but _anything_ was preferable to this aching _emptiness_. Not knowing never hurt so much.

If the Enchantress wanted you, then you could accept that. She would have your answers, one way or another. Whether or not you actually obtained them was another thing entirely.

As it turns out, the strange green abomination known simply as Oolong was not malevolent, nor was he the brightest bulb in the chandelier. You’ve taken up residence on his ledge, but you hardly speak to him and he’s too happy playing his music to really care about your presence. So you sit, nestled in a small corner with your cherished books on your lap, plotting for how you’d escape under Plague Knight’s nose. 

You’ve long since garnered everything of relative importance from your worn books already, and frankly it was just to throw others off to what you’ve really been thinking of. Mindlessly, you flip through the worn pages, reading the faded words but not registering their meaning. It takes you a few seconds to realize the book in your lap is the one about Pridemoor’s history, and your mind briefly flits to the conversation you had with Draak and Styx. 

The fact remains both have been too busy to interact with you for the past few days, even being unavailable to eat together as you usually do. While a sting of betrayal made your heart hurt, it made things easier too; this way, you won’t let anyone else down. 

Once the activity of the room dies down, you leave to either retrieve a quick meal to eat in your corner or to return to bed. In the morning, you return to your corner alongside Oolong, listen to him periodically play music, and so forth. The cycle repeats until you hear word of Plague Knight leaving for ‘the mountains in the east,’ wherever those are. 

_Patience_ , the void warns.

You don’t actually see the alchemist leave, but you figure he’s gone after eavesdropping on a conversation held between him and Percy. After wishing him well whilst he “experienced the finest aerial engineering of our time,” the horse bid him safe travels and would be ready for the next essence. Safe to say, you assumed after you watched the knight’s back recede into the shadows of the exit, you were in the clear to make your move.

Still, you laze about for most of the day even if Plague Knight supposedly left in the morning. Better safe than sorry, what with the erratic knight popping in randomly and all. Really, you were just finalizing your plan.

Once night fell - judging by the passing of dinner and the hush of activity in the central room - you quietly departed back to your room with a quick “good night” to Oolong. 

Alone, bathed in the familiar light of your candles, you begin packing. It takes time to ensure you have everything, but you want to absolutely sure you are prepared for this endeavour. You’re going to depart for the Tower, and you won’t return to the Potionarium until you have an identity, a past, and hopefully, a reason to remain as an alchemist’s apprentice.

_You don’t need to rely on anyone else’s approval to achieve something for yourself._

Mona’s words linger in your mind, and their truth synchronizes with the void inside. Yes, you definitely don’t need Plague Knight’s approval to determine your worth, but it is _you_ who cannot accept the way things are now. You’re merely a shadow of your former self, whoever that may be. If you’re going to move forward, you need to understand how you came to the place you are _now_ and how you _will be_.

Maybe you’re a fool. Maybe the answers will remain elusive and your purpose fruitless. You know it’s only folly to attempt what you are: to deliberately betray the trust held in confidence to a powerful, perhaps the most powerful alchemist in all of the valley. To seek that which may very well destroy you inside and out.

He knows this, as do you. But rewards without risk are bitter compared to the sweetness of success against all odds.

So you pack. You pilfer your meager belongings for helpful resources, placing them in a magenta sack. The extra food you’ve managed to swipe from the dining commons during the rushes are wrapped in cheesecloth and tucked away. The Tower of Fate seems to pierce the heavens, and as such a map was unnecessary. Then, tenderly, you pluck the two smoke bombs - one leftover from your scrimmage with the Black Knight and the other Mona’s memento - and tuck them into your robes pockets.

Eyes scan over your desk and your heart pangs with latent pain when you see the scattered pages. Ah yes, the notes you had taken during Plague Knight’s various teaching sessions. Written on paper and with ink gifted to you by the two friends who remained by your side even when they did not need to. You know the pages will prove useless on your journey, but you are nothing if not a sentimental fool. Gently, you fold them up and tuck them away into your paltry sack. 

You had considered writing them a note explaining your situation, but it would be a useless task. Your friends cannot read old script, and you cannot understand the current alphabet. That and it would enable anyone smart enough to track you down once you left, which was undesirable. Still, guilt gnaws away inside.

Opening the drawer of your desk, you quickly realize all that’s left are your old beggar’s garments and a shining bomb casing swaddled in their remains. Carefully, you cradle the golden bomb and place it inside your bag, wrapped in your leftover cheesecloth. Best be careful with a bomb you don’t know the full strength of.

You opt to leave behind your precious books. Knowing they’ll only weigh you down, you leave them neatly stacked upon your desk. 

Task done, you take a seat on your bed and wait.

The adrenaline coursing through your vessels and spiking your heart rate enables you to shrug off any fatigue. You can’t afford to sleep when it’s your best shot at leaving the Potionarium without being detected, whether by other minions or the knights patrolling the village aboveground. Steady but lasting, you know this excitement thrumming through you will become a normal feeling in the coming days.

You’re no gambler, but your poker face is falling apart around the seams. To continue like you’ve been would be an agony you aren’t willing to put up with. 

Once it feels well past midnight, you make your move.

Fastening your mask to your hood and securing your meager sack to the inner pockets of your robes, you double check everything. Food, bombs, even those useless notes. And the precious burst potion gifted to you by your friends rests in your sleeve’s pocket. When it’s all accounted for, you quietly open your door.

Trudging the familiar cobbled paths, you sneak toward a hidden entrance and, in this case, exit. Just before you make to unhitch the latch, you still. The steady flow of water hides any noise your footfalls may have made in the empty aqueducts, but it cannot hide whoever is approaching.

Quickly, you turn around, inwardly cursing your abysmal luck but instead find two familiar silhouettes. You lower your burst potion and allow them to walk up to you. What strikes you as odd are the small trinkets held in their arms.

Voice no larger than a whisper, Styx explains, “We know where you’re going, but we’re not here to stop you.” You can practically hear the crooked grin adorning his face when he comments, “In fact, we’re here for the opposite.”

A sudden tightness encompasses your throat and you push the feeling aside as Draak leans down. “I’m sorry we didn’t hang out much lately,” he murmurs, “But we were too busy preparing.” Fiddling with the small satchel in his grasp, he holds it out and you accept it. “I-I don’t know how long you’ll be gone for, b-but I packed a few days worth of bread, cheese, and jerky. O-oh! And there’s a health tonic, courtesy of Styx!”

You pocket the food and continue ignoring the burning behind your eyes. Styx then holds out a folded piece of parchment. Taking it, he whispers, “I know you can see the Tower, but this is a map which I think will prove helpful regardless. I’ve also marked an optimal route, so you don’t stick out too much.”

Gently unfolding it, the print is slightly faded but it’s clear enough you can understand the strangely detailed structures even if you can’t read their descriptors. But, as Styx promised, a definitively darker line etches out a path to the east.

“Decorative maps like there are pretty rare,” Styx continues, voice quiet. “Should help you avoid anyone who may be looking for you.” He shrugs his shoulders before adding on, “Besides, I know for certain you can understand it since you can’t read the modern alphabet.”

You head shoots up. “H-how—?”

Styx releases a small laugh. “You think we wouldn’t notice? It became obvious when you refused to take notes in anything _but_ old script.” He and Draak share another giggle and you can only wonder how transparent you were. “Not to mention you only read those two books even with all those available in the reading room here.”

Draak then quietly chirps, “Yeah! Which is why we both agree it must be pretty important, whatever you’re trying to remember. And if going to the Tower will help, then _we’re_ going to help! What else are friends for?”

Unbeknownst to them, your mouth gapes openly. Swallowing the lump, you can only choke out, “G-guys…”

That’s all you can manage before you fling yourself at them, latching onto their robes in a tight hug. They return the abrupt gesture, curling their own arms around your shoulders. The feeling of arms secured around your frame is all it takes for the tears to fall. To think you were so starved for—for _this_.

With them, times like these have always been carefree if not peaceful, at least for the most part. You don’t know what you’d do if it weren’t for both Draak and Styx’s solid foundation in your otherwise turbulent life.

You know your journey has a possibility it will lead you to your undoing. You know it would be safer to remain here, hidden away in the safety and security of the shadows. You know you can simply make more memories existing as you are.

But you can’t.

You can’t be content with the fact you have nothing, really, to call your own. You’ve lost your identity, something you can never replace, not really.

Maybe once you’ve recovered your forsaken memories, maybe then you can enjoy the everyday happenings of life. You can appreciate them, yes, but it will be better, _easier_ even, if you knew your place in this vast, vast world. You just had to see it from a different perspective, one not cut off by the cage you’ve built.

So you relish the feeling of your cherished friend’s arms wrapped around you for a moment, quelling the hidden sobs wracking your frame. You know it would be foolish for them to accompany you, much less aid you in your plot, but to go this far for you is...this cannot be replaced.

You swore you would be worthy of their trust, their loyalty, their affection once you returned. Until then, this would have to suffice.

Parting almost physically hurt, but you say nothing and instead nod. They return it with a slow wave. You turn around and don’t look back as you release the trap door hatch, embracing the chilly night time breeze greeting you. Gently, you close the door and you take a step forward in the neighboring foliage. Then another, and another until you are running away as fast as your legs will carry you.

You don’t look back.

**—**

You ran until you lost your breath, and continued to run even as your legs screamed silently at you for pushing them beyond their limit. You figured successful evasion would come easier the further away from the Potionarium you were, and to hide away during the daytime when if would be easier to take notice of your bright emerald and magenta robes. Therefore when the sun crept above the horizon, you had found shelter similar to when you first woke up.

At first you had been at war with yourself for acting so rashly, for placing your personal desires above the security freely promised to you. But then you remembered how you could never thrive by an alchemist’s side when you could never partake in the art yourself. So you steeled yourself for your inevitable punishment once Plague Knight knew of your betrayal. 

Days passed in relative quiet. Adopting a habit of traveling through the cooler nighttime climate and resting during the day, away from the sun’s merciless rays was far easier than anticipated. While difficult to read the map Styx gave you in the darkness, it was undeniably helpful in guiding you off the beaten path. While the lands weren’t familiar, they were regions far from any stronghold of Plague Knight’s, namely the Explodatorium and Armor Outpost.

Unfortunately for you, it too risky to use your burst potion at all due to how easily recognizable it was. Or in other words, your poor feet were _killing_ you. You don’t know how large the valley is, but you know well enough you will be crossing it in it’s near entirety to arrive at your destination. 

You’ve walked under the blanket of night with only the stars and Tower’s silhouette for company, walked through the woods surrounding the village and the lab hidden beneath it, walked cragged paths by the ocean, walked through mountainous tundra. You’ve seen glimpses of this world on your journey, from the familiar shadows of the Explodatorium and Armor Outpost in the distance to a shining apparatus floating in the ocean just beyond the beachfront, even a cobbled tower built of bricks and gears while a fleet of air vessels sway in the open sky nearby. 

To say you’ve been underground too long would be an understatement. You’ve never had the chance to appreciate the other territories of the valley before, much less walk alongside them; all you’ve known is what Plague Knight offered. 

Even so, the fact you’ll come crawling back to him after you remember sits fine with you. As you’ve said, no one but a fool would throw away the relative safety and security he’s given you, especially in a world where the powerful rule over the powerless. Might makes right and you are not exempt from that law.

Therefore you tread with more caution as soon as you step foot on barren ground, hidden in the shadows of seemingly endless dark clouds hanging above. You assume this is the very same land Draak and Styx warned you about being cursed, and while you cannot sense magic, you can garner a sense of foreboding; it’s not unlike the same feeling of the Lich Yard. Probably that ‘dark magic’ or whatever it was. Still, you were undeniably glad to be here. 

About time, if you’re being honest. You’re no adventurer, but you needed to go to these lengths for the chance of filling this painful emptiness inside. 

Of course, there’s also the fact your rations have been running low for the past day. Then there’s the fact you’ve been missing from the Potionarium for roughly a week and it’s likely Plague Knight already knows you’ve deserted. If anything, you’re lucky to have made this far at all, considering your track record.

But you persevere, feet stomping over dead ground and dark shadows of the nearing Tower. Luckily, the surrounding darkness is enough to cloak your robe’s vibrant colors. You’ve had a hard enough time avoiding any campsites you accidentally stumbled upon during your travels thus far, made even more difficult by the frankly obnoxious green and magenta. For such a secretive guy, Plague Knight didn’t know subtlety when it came to dressing his minions. 

Scampering through craggy ravines and hiding beneath boulders from the periodic rains, you hate how...barren the landscape is. Makes it more difficult to remain hidden when there’s nothing to hide you away, at least not completely like all those caves back west. 

Which is why you’re none too surprised to see a shadow flicker before you as you step into a clearing surrounded by dead trees.

Although you’ve been lucky enough to avoid using your burst potion since you hardly encountered any monsters, you recognize the looming threat. Potion in hand, you still cannot find it in yourself to be calm when the visage appears as a familiar phantom.

Hovering in the hair, mantle billowing with some unseen wind, Specter Knight’s gravelly voice breaks the silence surrounding you since your leave. “Tarry here no longer, _minion_.”

Ah. So he clearly recognized you. There goes your luck.

Being alone with only your hurricane of thoughts as your sole company, and attempting to remain hidden by all means possible, you barely spoke a word in the last week. Voice raspy and ugly from disuse, you try and fail to respond immediately. Tongue still too dry, you shortly respond, “I left my cage.”

“And only a fool would willingly seek the Tower,” he replies in kind.

There’s so many things you want to say to him, but your voice falls silent. You want to tell him you’re sick of being nothing more than a pawn in a game which overreaches anything you could possibly comprehend, how you need to regain some semblance of normalcy to cope with the nothingness inside, that you’re your own person who has goals to achieve regardless of the web they’ve found themselves in. But nothing comes out.

You realize there’s no point discussing this. Instead, you settle for a simple, “Then I am a fool.”

Specter Knight heaves a small sigh, but approaches the topic from a different angle. “And what do you hope to find here, aside from your certain doom?”

“You know what I want.” You can hear him grip his scythe tighter.

“ _Begone_ , trespasser.” The knight spits. “Your prying will not behold any of your answers.”

This conversation was going nowhere. You knew this would inevitably end in yet another confrontation - you were unwilling to give up, not when you were _right here_ \- but you continue trying to weave your way around him. Two can play at this game.

Knowing your words will irk him, you comment, “You sound just like Plague Knight.”

Specter Knight says nothing but releases a quiet _hss_. Taking this as your cue to go on, you then remark, “Seems the two of you have more in common than I thought—”

“Choose your next words carefully,” the knight seethes.

You know it’s useless to defend yourself in these situations. All you can do is goad them into anger and hope they reveal something you can use against them. So you snidely reply, “After all, you’re _both_ traitors.” Of course, the irony of your statement is not lost on you.

Specter Knight again says nothing, instead releasing a low snarl. After a pause he does respond, voice scathing as he demands, “Return to that leech while you still can.”

Oh ho, so _now_ he’s threatening you. Either way, it seems your insurance with this guy has just run out; not that it matters too much. You figured it would come to this once he made it abundantly clear he wasn’t in the mood to be spoken with.

Schooling your voice into an eerie calm, you reply, “Not until I get my answers.”

It apparently angers the knight enough to the point where you can hear his grip on his scythe tighten. “A shame. It appears I will have to take matters into my own hands, since you do not seem to understand your place.”

“My ‘place’?” You quietly hiss. You pause and try to - futilely - reel in your anger released in tandem with his words, but a bitter laugh escapes nonetheless. “ _My_ place is wherever I will it to be; whether or not I fit into your little plans doesn’t concern me. What _does_ concern me is what _I_ want, and I seek the Tower.”

The wind surrounding Specter Knight picks up along with his own frustration. “ _Fool_! The only fate awaiting your at the Tower is your own demise!” With a flourish, he rears his scythe back into striking position. “What you seek cannot be obtained, not while I am still able!”

Your grip on your burst potion tightens, and you hurriedly aggravate the solution until it’s warmth seeps into your palm. The familiarity is scarcely comforting.

“By her magic or my blade, _your journey ends here_!”

With that he lunges at you with such raw speed your eyes cannot track him. Instinctively, you press the bottle’s valve and a burst of green erupts around you. Successful in your attempt to avoid his swing, you flap your sleeves to redirect your body so the knight remains in your sights. 

While you’ve managed to evade this man’s attacks in the past, you know it’s only a matter of time until he hits his mark. Whether or not you live to tell the tale depends on how successful you remain whilst dodging.

You know it’s futile to reciprocate his attacks, much less outlast his stamina; you were a lowly minion compared to one of the knights of the Order of No Quarter. More disconcerting is the fact this is the very same knight who forcefully coerced all the _other_ knights to serve the Enchantress. Coupled with the fact there’s nowhere to run _to_...things weren’t going to be easy.

The knight whirls around and, instead of striking out with his scythe like you expect, he instead raising a single clawed hand into the air. Confused, you take the opportunity to prep your burst potion again and mentally catalogue where all your other bombs are. 

Two smoke bombs reside in your robe’s pockets and your untested bomb is still hidden away inside your personal sack. Not optimal, but there’s nothing you can do since your surroundings are barren and as such, there’s no refuge nearby.

You feel your eyes widen in fear as you watch a trio of green boneclangs claw their way from the ground, rusted swords in hand and glinting ominously in what little light there is. Your heart seizes in fear at their weapons and you use your burst to vault further from their approach.

Internally cursing, you try to think of a plan - something, _anything_ \- as the boneclangs continue their relentless approach. They’re deceptively fast, but much like the others in the depths of the Lich Yard, only their torso and forearms are protected with tattered leather armor. 

Luckily, your burst is ready by the time the first stops to swing its sword at you in an overly choreographed fashion. Without waiting, you leap over it as it explodes in a shower of smoke with one direct hit.

Adrenaline singing through your vessels, you barely have time to dodge the incoming swing of Specter Knight’s scythe by ducking and rolling onto the rocky ground. The sharp stones easily scrape your legs, but it’s nothing compared to what the knight’s attack would have caused.

Unfortunately, you don’t see the second boneclang standing behind you and can only choke out a stunted scream as its blade digs into your back. 

Already feeling the warm rush of blood, you turn around and grit your teeth, reaching for the damned thing’s skull. Considering how easily the other fell apart, you could only assume these summons were fragile and meant as a distraction. One firm swipe later, it’s head rolls off as the rest of its body disintegrates in a poof of smoke. Burst potion primed, taking care of the final boneclang is easy enough. 

Gripping your bleeding shoulder, you can barely contain the boiling rage inside as Specter Knight loftily floats over. Voice impatient, he scornfully asks, “Have you reconsidered your futile position?” 

Your answer is plucking the only skull remaining and rapidly turning around to hurl it at him. 

Unfortunately, he quickly swipes his blade and the skull likewise disintegrates into two smaller clouds. With a sharp hiss, Specter Knight seethes, “ _Impudent fool_.”

Knowing you don’t stand a chance, even more so with what feels like a gaping hole in your back, you jump out of his resultant swing and cry out, “How do _you_ know?! How do you know I won’t find _anything_?!”

You have to burst to dodge another flurry of swipes from the reaper’s blade. A pained gasp breaks through your clenched teeth as the resultant toxic fumes eat away at your injury. Still you must continue this song and dance of battle if you’re to reach your destination.

Through the adrenaline rushing through your body and the heartbeat echoing painfully between your ears, you hear Specter Knight’s response. “I’ve seen your essence; I know what you seek will destroy you so thoroughly you could never hope to recover!”

You hear his words and realize that he may very well be right. You’ve seen your essence up close and personal; hell, it _is_ you, at least in some way. You know the self-destructiveness inside is pushing you to become lax in your dodging, how if you can score another hit all the blood will be worth it. You know your desperation is going to get you killed at this rate. But—

“Why do you care?” You yell. The reaper dissipates briefly and you scream again at the empty air, “ _Answer me_!”

 _No one cares_ , the void whispers.

Your answer is a swift, spinning blade rushing past and splitting your side open. 

“ _Gugh_ —!” Instinctively, you clutch your side and curse as a spurt of blood soaks your glove. You know you should’ve anticipated that, but _damnit_ you were being reckless. 

The scythe continues on its path through the air, turning around as if being pulled by strings back to its master. You turn around and watch Specter Knight retrieve his weapon, rearing it back into another attack. You try to come up with a plan, but there’s _no time_ —

You burst to dodge yet another fling of the man’s scythe, gasping in pain as the toxic fumes pierce into your exposed wounds. Ignoring the burning of your flesh, you try again. “If you care, then why are you trying to kill me?” Pathetic. _Pathetic_ —

 _No one cares_! The void snaps.

“You cannot comprehend what you are attempting to unleash!” Specter Knight seethes. He grasps his blade once it comes full circle, flourishing it before remarking, “I will not allow my fate to dissolve any more than it already has because of some interloper!”

He knows. _He knows_ —

The void screeches and you scream in tandem. “ _What do you know about me_?!”

Specter Knight doesn’t respond, instead rushing toward you. Once within striking distance, you rapidly burst toward him, ignoring how this one causes tears of pain to erupt from your eyes. Vaulting over his scythe in one fell motion, you launch your body at his and collide midair. 

The result of you stopping dead in your motion should’ve been expected, given the man’s sheer height and dense-looking armor beneath his cloak. But you cannot unleash your latent frustration as he quickly dispatches you with a hand, flinging you away with little decorum. 

You roll on the uneven ground, choking on a pained sob as grit enters your injuries. Once you stall, you struggle to make it to you knees, torso spasming in latent agony. Blearily, you notice specks appearing on the sunken ground before you. More specks appear and you see the drops which fell to create them. 

Ignoring the oncoming rainfall and loss of traction, you stagger slowly to your feet, fatigue weighing heavily upon you. Struggling to keep your breathing even, you glare imploringly at the silent figure hanging in the air. “You…” but words briefly fail you as something pangs inside. “You and him both...you’re hiding something from me…!”

Specter Knight remains impassive, still. Not unlike the faceless crowd.

 _Betrayal_.

In the quiet, with only the tiny sounds of rain hitting the ground, the reaper’s voice answers. “Would it not be a mercy,” he begins, bitter and cold, “To remain ignorant to what has twisted your essence so?”

“ _You’re lying_!” You spit, nearly falling over as you tilt your head forward. “You—you can’t _understand_ —!” _You can’t understand what it’s like, nearly falling apart beneath the weight of your own emptiness at every waking moment_.

“ _Silence_!” Specter Knight bellows. Hunching in on himself, scythe held aloft he seethes, “It is you who knows nothing—”

“ _Then tell me_!” Your ragged voice screeches above his own gravelly pitch and increasing sounds of harsh rain. “If you know who I am, then just _tell me_...!” _It’ll make everything easier for the both of us_.

The reaper releases a wordless snarl and lunges at you yet again. You throw yourself to the side and slide across the slick ground, thankfully out of reach from his blade. But he quickly gathers his bearings and makes to lunge at you again. Unable to gain purchase through the haze of pain filling your senses and the wet ground, you wait for the inevitable and hold your arms protectively in front of you.

A familiar string echoes throughout your arms, and you release a hiss of pain. Ignoring the familiar burn of blood running from the wounds, you roll away and struggle into a crouch. 

Cradling your arms close, you look up and watch as the reaper briefly descends into standing on the ground. 

The scene reminds you of the when you first met, how you were going to die by his hands only to escape that fate. Yet here you are now, repeating history’s mistakes. Briefly, the visage flashes to mind but you shove it away before it can truly render you obsolete. 

Cowering before the reaper, you let out a hollow laugh. It rings in the empty air. Finally, you snap, “You know it can only end this way.” 

His golden visor tilts down. You continue unfettered. “Either you kill me now or I’ll reach the Tower.”

“...so be it.” And the reaper raises his scythe.

Everything happens quickly. 

A booming _CRASH_ echoes in the sky above, swallowing everything in a flash of white. A harsh flinch wracks your body but you take the opportunity to pry out a single smoke bomb from your robe. As the blade descends upon you, you grasp the small glass casing and rear your arm back before hurling it directly in front of you.

A cloud of gray smoke spills forth, cloaking you in its area. As quickly as you can, you pry yourself to your feet and scurry away, nearly tripping in your haste. Briefly, you glimpse down and fail you see your own feet, much less your body.

The relief is short-lived when a blade cleanly slices through your legs. 

You fall to the ground in a heap, releasing a gasp of surprise and pain. Soon enough, the stinging is accompanied by the telltale burning of blood loss. How did he— _the rain_. 

More tears erupt in your eyes as you crawl away, barely noticing your form flicker back into visibility. The heavy footfalls of the knight approach you. 

“ _Coward_!” He hisses. Reaching out his hand, his scythe flies back into his grip. Another crash of lightning and thunder bathe your surrounding in white, glinting malevolently off his blade.

Once he’s towering over your prone form, he holds his weapon against his side. Snidely, he remarks, “You think me incompetent? You think I do not know _why_ you seek your answers?” Leaning down, he hisses, “You approach me with _lies_. You’ll simply crawl back into his grasp the moment you have your answers.”

Lifting his scythe, Specter Knight then states, “I can promise you that dream will never become reality.”

“ _Shut up_!” You screech. “You don’t know _anything_ —!”

“ _You_ are merely a tool, _nothing more_ ,” he snarls. Raising his blade further, he continues, voice filled with vitriol, “Even _if_ you retain yourself, you cannot hope to escape your past.”

Then, his voice dips down into something quiet. Tone abnormally soft if not scathing, he adds, “Just as I, you cannot fathom what awaits at the Tower of Fate.”

 _Liar_ , the void seethes.

The sounds of rainfall interrupt the stillness of the resultant quiet. 

The moment you make to stand, the reaper readies his scythe. 

Everything seems to happen in an instant after that: you reach for your last smoke bomb as Specter Knight flings himself back into the air before rapidly flying toward you. The moment he’s in range, you release your burst and vault from his range, gritting your teeth at the sharp pain the motion causes. Just as he turns to keep you within sight, you hurl your last smoke bomb at your feet, body dispersing into invisibility the moment the resultant cloud cloaks you.

Throwing yourself to the side, you hurriedly reach into your largest pocket and retrieve your meager sack of belongings. Never stopping for an instant - the smoke bomb was too precious, _sorry Styx, Mona_ \- you pry through the sack and feel for the familiar bulbous shape of a bomb casing. Once within your grasp, you shove the sack back into your robes and watch as the knight turns to directly stare at you. 

No sooner than he recognizes you, the enchantment dissipates and your body returns to visibility. Specter Knight immediately rears back to lunge at you again—you lift your arm in preparation to throw your bomb—he closes in and you’ve committing to the motion, fingers slipping off the glass—

He’s too close—

You can only watch as his blade slices through the bomb and then—

Bright, white light engulfs your entire vision.

And it’s hot hot hot _hot hot HOT_ —

It _hurts_ and you can’t _see_ and you can’t hear the rain—

Something reverberates through all the pain and echoes throughout your body, and— _oh_.

Your eyes were open but it's only when the white fades away that you can _see_.

The green sky hangs above you, rain falling onto you. Since when—you fell down. The bomb—the explosion threw you to the ground, _that’s_ what that reverberation was. 

The rain continues to fall and you still can’t hear it or feel it.

All you can feel is the burning, searing pain spread across your entire front. 

You are so, so _tired_. You just want to sleep and never wake up.

You’re too tired to scream in pain as you struggle to pry yourself from the ground, too tired to make any sort of sound as you pull yourself into a seated position. Not like it matters; you can barely hear anything as it is.

Struggling to right your breathing, your eyes flit across the barren landscape and land on the shifting body of Specter Knight. You continue watching as he slowly pries himself from the ground, staggering onto his feet.

He sees you and begins to slowly limp toward you.

Vaguely, you realize you can hear his footsteps through the gentle thrumming of the rain.

You can’t find it yourself to move another inch, even when he holds out a hand and summons his scythe back into his grasp.

But his blade drags across the slick ground as he continues limping. A pause. Cradles his ribs. Then another step. Another.

The fear inside you does not resurface when he stops mere feet from you. Instead, all you feel is the pain gradually ebbing away until your mind is not filled with screams. Still the tears flow.

Hugging yourself, you simply wait for the inevitable. Then—

Specter Knight releases a pained grunt as he lifts his blade from the ground to instead use as a makeshift cane. Hunching in on himself, he looks down at you. More silence abounds until he finally says, “You and I both know what you’re attempting is folly.”

You say nothing, but hunch your shoulders in defense.

Steadying his stance, the reaper lifts his scythe and holds it aloft. With a hiss, he snaps, “Your happy ending will never come. _Give up_.”

A flash of indignation burns brighter than the fiery pain piercing your nerves.

“You can’t know!” You choke out, hating how your voice betrays the tears. Hanging your head, you repeat, “You can’t know that…”

“How idiotic,” the knight scoffs. “I suppose it’s useless, but allow me to refresh your memory: _I know enough_.”

Something akin to the sound of breaking glass rings out faintly through all the thoughts.

“What?” You snap, bitter and hot and angry. “You want a fucking trophy saying you were right, that I was a goddamn _fool_ for even _thinking_ I could get _anywhere_ with hi—”

 _Betrayal_ , the void hisses. 

Your throat tightens to the point your words are cut off with a harsh choke. A fresh wave of tears sting your eyes and fall down your face, but you don’t pay any heed. “...you think I asked for any of _this_?” A sardonic laugh escapes. “All I ever wanted was to _understand_ , to just know who I am. Is that too much to ask for?” Another laugh. 

The noise quickly devolves into stunted chuckles and then broken sobs. “And then you just—”

Something continues to ring out inside your head. Maybe it’s the void inside screaming or something else entirely, but you clamp your shaking hands over your ears. Another choked sob echoes pitifully. A harsh shudder wracks your cowering frame and pangs between your ribs almost painfully.

“...you _know_. You know but I—I _don’t_ and you just—just…” Another spasm inside your chest. More echoed pains. “...I don’t understand. I don’t understand and it _hurts_ ; it hurts so much…!” You don’t know if you’re talking about the hurt outside or inside anymore.

 _Betrayal_! The void cries.

Your hands find themselves clutching at your sides. The hot flash of pain from your wound is nothing compared to the turmoil running rampant in your mind. To think you got so far only to be denied _again_...

“If you’re going to kill me,” you choke out, “Then _fine_! It’d be easier for the both of us…!”

A pause. Then, “How true your words are.”

He lifts his scythe.

Voice nearly tangible through all the pitter patter of the rain, Specter Knight remarks, “Consider this a mercy.”

You close your eyes, wetness creeping down your cheeks.

Moments pass. Nothing happens.

“What?” You choke out, releasing another series of sardonic giggles. “Am I not worth it?”

Through the haze of pain engulfing your limbs and the frigid rainfall seeping into your bones, you know if things go on you won’t live through the day. Blearily, you open your eyes and allow your head to fall. Briefly, the tilted image of the Tower enters your vision before being washed away in a new wave of tears.

So close yet so far…

Something warm and heavy drips down the side of your face. With every passing beat of your heart, more blood seeps from your wounds and washes away in the rain; except for the injury leaking from your head.

Carefully, with trembling hands and quivering fingers, you reach up and begin unclasping your mask. A few moments later the familiar magenta beak falls into your lap as the hood frees your visage to the rain. It’s cool, pleasant even, against the heat trapped beneath your skin.

“There,” you grunt. Forcing a smile is more difficult than you recall, but you look up into the inky darkness of Specter Knight’s visor regardless. “Should make things even easier.”

Even if the smile never reached your eyes, you at least wanted to pretend you would be killed on your own terms.

Still the man does not move.

You can’t help but let out a shuddering breath before following it with a short bout of laughter. Quietly, so quietly you think the rain will swallow your words up, you admit, “I gave up everything to come here. My home, my safety, my friends—” 

_I—I’m sorry...Styx, Draak, Mona...even you, Plague Knight…_

More hollow laughter rings out. 

“...what more is my life, at this point?”

Specter Knight does not reply. Instead, he slowly lowers his blade. Your smile falls.

Heaving a sigh and ignoring the spike of pain throughout your ribcage at the motion, you comment, “Look, either you kill me or the elements will.” 

Another _CRACK_ of lightning and thunder roll overhead, but you’re too tired to even wince. 

Eventually, Specter Knight takes a step back and gently floats back into the air. Mantle swirling around him and scythe held loftily in his hands, his form begins to fold in on itself. The last thing you see of the man is his hooded face, looking down at you, staring through the abyss held within his visor.

“Just as you have, I’ve made my choice.” His crimson mantle swallows up his face but not his next words.

“Let us hope they are not in vain.”

With that, he vanishes from your sight. 

Briefly, you hear an echo of more thunderclaps in the distance. Ignoring the pain stabbing your skin and chill set into your insides, you pluck your mask from you lap and reattach it. Hood now in place, the rain continues to cascade off your chemical-coated robes and into your open wounds, which have long since stopped bleeding. 

Biting your lip, you struggle to your feet and begin walking toward the Tower.

As tiring as it is excruciating, you keep limping, holding your side and yourself together. You walk until you can’t, and then you crawl until you reach a small crevice nestled between jagged boulders and beneath an awning of stone. Hidden from the rain and within the darkness, you remove your meager belongings and patch your wounds to the best of your ability with the cheesecloth you have. 

In the quiet, with only the rain for company, you heave a shuddering breath. “God, what am I supposed to do now…?”

Exhausted, in pain and freezing, you settle down and hope you live through the night.

**—**

You find yourself surrounded by blinding white, white, white.

Back at your pristine, sanitized bench, you go through the mechanical motions of pinching this, filling that, dropping here, and discarding there. The idle whirring of the actual contributors ring out constantly in the background, white noise abounds.

You barely glance at the blinding numbers on the only clock in the room. Like a well-oiled machine you clean your work space even though you are the dirtiest thing in the room with your fake second skin and your white, white, white lab coat.

Exiting the sanitation chamber, you saunter through these empty white halls with practiced ease. Faceless silhouettes pass by, come and go, and you do not care for them as they do not care for you. This cycle is endless and agonizing but it is all you have.

You do not linger in the small space allocated for you and you alone. You do not pause when you find the pale folder and the small storage device. You do not stall when you make your way through the white maze-like corridors.

You enter the room filled with those who rule over you with little discretion to your actual desires. Their featureless faces turn toward you as they sit at the conference table, all at once like a well-oiled machine. It suits them and this place.

As their voices ebb and flow away into silence you take up residence at the front. Papers in hand and presentation at the ready, you begin arguing for a chance to prove your worth to these people, to prove you have merit where they see none. Like a marionette on strings, you dance before them.

The nerves of the situation make your hands tremble as much as it does your heart. In your worry to impress, you accidentally page through your data too fast and scatter the papers to the floor.

Mortification sinks into your bones like a frigid promise. Your tongue twists and turns, attempting to make light of the situation but you choke on a stunted laugh. Their precious cog was only proving it was faulty. Now they’ll never let you help, truly help—

Pleading, you look up, hoping to see something resembling mercy in their ever-blank faces, but.

Everything shifts.

One by one they begin to stand, blurred visages angled down at you. Slowly but surely their business suits melt away into simple garments as do most of the features of the white, white, white room. 

You are no longer blinded but still you wince and cower before their approaching figures. Their murmurings begin anew until you are drowning in tender, shaken voices begging for forgiveness, for mercy. They call out your name in tones of reverence and in notes of disdain.

_It’s too late, too late. Please forgive us, forgive us. Have mercy on our souls, please, please._

You reach out but know they have long since left you to judgement. You know it is folly to hope your hand will protect you from their shambling, grieving advance, but you cannot quell the flame alight in your chest, your heart. You hope because it’s all you can do.

But fear is merciless and strikes randomly.

The pathetic flame inside your heart cannot hope to withstand this crushing betrayal. You cannot crawl away fast enough with the weight of this pain rooting you in place. Still they call your name, pleading for mercy all the while. They are so, so sorry for this. They are sorry.

They reach out and you fall back, scalding tears burning your cheeks. Your voice is lost in the recesses of your despair, endless and suffocating.

You cannot make out their features through the perpetual blur hiding their faces, but you can see the glint of the swords they carry clear as day.

 _We will free you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you probably thought we'd make it to the Tower of Fate, _hehe_. Too bad Bitter McEdgeFace decided to drop in a ruin everything. Also for those of you who've played _Specter of Torment_ , did you guys know about the 'info' command and subsequently read the sick burns at Specter Knight's expense (after...y'know)? Like... _woah_.
> 
> Anyways. My guys, my dudes; _we only have a couple more chapters_. 
> 
> I'm so excited to see what you'll think, and I can't thank you enough for your kind words which have never failed to bring a smile to my face! So thank you so very, very much for your comments and interest!!


	14. The Hideous Magician

You don’t know how long you stay within the safety of the alcove. All you know are the dull pains from your recent encounter, the unforgiving chill of the rains, and the hunger beginning to steadily gnaw away at your innards. As it were, you’ve no more rations nor any other health tonics aside from the single one you already used. So far it’s done wonders for your pain, but any hurried movements pull at your healing wounds.

Peeking around the edge of the jagged boulders, you see the Tower hanging overhead. If you had to guess, you’re only a few miles away. While close enough to easily burst there within minutes, you still were hesitant to use your potion since it was imbued with Draak’s toxicity and therefore began to eat away at your open sores. But the real reason you haven’t left is because the goddamn rain hasn’t let up.

Heaving a sigh you can barely hear over the pounding water, you snuggle into your spot and settle down. You’d leave as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

Occupying your mind was an entirely different matter. Specter Knight made sure the hurricane of thoughts grew into a maelstrom of intangible perceptions. He had said so many things, and even through your...episode, you had remembered enough of his words to warrant more thought into the matters. 

Hugging yourself to keep what little warmth you have, you try not to think about how both Plague and Specter Knight know what you’re searching for; they know _who you are_. Still they refuse to speak about it, either claiming the memories will end everything about you or render you as good as dead. Considering the state of your essence, their ‘worries’ may be slightly warranted; _if_ they ever cared about you as a person and not another useful application in their pursuits. 

_Betrayal_ , the void whispers. It doesn’t make things any easier to accept.

Styx and Draak to build up your foundation in this world, and Mona to push you into finding your place in it. What has Plague Knight offered but a cage? And Specter Knight?

You thought you’d be content being used. In reality, you wanted to be useful. But as with seemingly everything else in your life, you’ve been denied of that desire. If there’s anything you seem to be well-versed in, it’s being dismissed either bodily or emotionally. Perhaps it was too much to ask for a day where you weren’t being put on the spot for longer than a few lingering words. 

You can’t help but think dying would be a mercy compared to living with these lies. You’ve carved out a place only to find you’ll never fit. And what were you if you were just another broken husk of a person, wandering around yearning for the warmth of worth, of purpose? How could you accomplish anything if you didn’t know who you were…? Everything begins from something, and then it’s eventually bettered through time.

But something hollow cannot be bettered if there’s nothing _to_ better.

Idly, you wonder if the curse afflicting you has trapped you into obscurity. But, you surmise, it doesn’t really matter because you are here, you are alive, and you have yet the means to achieve something for yourself. There’s no other choice except to move on. 

_Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember anything_.

A plague doctor mask, carved into the shape of a bird’s beak.

 _Would it not be a mercy to remain ignorant to what has twisted your essense so_?

A golden visor, hidden beneath a hood and mantle of crimson.

A short, bitter laugh escapes unbidden. How ironic that the two men who led you so far, only to tear you down when you needed their aid the most, have turned their backs on you. The two men whose masks obscured their faces not unlike the blurred vistages of the crowd sealed within your memories. 

_Betrayal_ , the void seethes. You know better than to argue the truth.

The only mercy in their actions is the face their voices don’t haunt your dreams, chanting for forgiveness, that they are _so sorry_ —

It’s probably a good thing. You have little doubt if either begged for your forgiveness you would readily give it. Really, you’d give about anything if it meant you could be useful to someone, regardless of what turmoil they’ve forced you to endure previously. This world is a merciless thing, unbiased in its law of might makes right, yet when you look past the picturesque facade you know there’s little difference here compared to your world. It will be fine, so long as you can depend on someone and they can depend on you. But first—

 _...Then make a name for yourself_.

—you have to cure your own brokenness. 

In the depths of shadowed lands and beneath a blanket of clouds, nestled between jagged rocks and desperate to prove your worth, you wait. You wait until the green skies break through the oppressive clouds hanging above like bloated corpses, you wait until they pause their weeping enough to leave your crumbling safety, and then you palm the familiar pear-shaped casing. 

You know it will hurt, but you are no stranger to pain. There’s no other option other than to endure.

Prepping your burst, you stretch away the aching lingering in your shoulders, you back, and your legs. It’s a jarring thing, to see the swath of colors in the stained glass windows of the Tower against the perpetual dark surrounding the barren land it rests upon. You recall all the words telling you that those who dare to traverse its depths or ascend its height never return, that only those with nothing left to live for attempt the climb. It’s a challenge you are willing to meet.

With a running start, you leap into the open air and press the button on your potion’s valve. A brilliant green fog surrounds you and digs into your open wounds, but it’s nothing compared to the exhilaration singing through your vessels and spite fueling your heart.

Whatever will be, will be.

**—**

While you were adept at bursting and had much practice traversing upward using mobile platforms, the Tower’s architecture was...pretty goddamn malevolent. You can’t even count the number of times you’ve nearly plummeted down to your untimely death on one hand anymore; who knew there were magically floating platforms which immediately dropped as soon as you landed on them? And then there were all the seemingly bottomless pits, and on top of those were all the _spikes_...

The Tower of Fate was kicking your ass.

With a muted grunt of both pain and fatigue, you manage to successfully pry yourself onto the cobbled ledge. Once settled, you gulp in greedy breaths of air, willing your erratic heart rate to calm. As the adrenaline flushes from your system you collapse onto the crumbled floor, kneeling against another pile of rubble. Honestly, for being so intimidating, the Tower wasn’t in the best of conditions.

The broken walls do not occupy your attention for long. Instead, your eyes trail over the edge and scan the iridescent horizon. While you can imagine how the Tower of Fate looked in the past, the view it stood sentinel over was something else entirely. 

You have zero idea what the previous kingdom to Pridemoor looked like, but from your vantage point you could see the entirety of the valley and all its monuments. From the stagnant blanket of nightfall over the land an aurora borealis fell in tandem, the mountains home to a tower of gears and a fleet of ships, even further you can see the silhouettes of the Armor Outpost, Explodatorium, and the barest hints of the Lich Yard and village. Even the rolling green hills and brilliantly shimmering waters of the sea are—

 _Familiar_ , the void coos. You don’t remember enough to dispute it. You may have very well lived on the coast or near pastures which spanned mountains.

Oddly enough, the sight was comforting. It also served to remind you of how far you’ve managed to come, on your own two feet no less. Here, amongst the broken remains of a fallen palace, you feel like you actually belong for once. Still, it doesn’t mean you particularly enjoy a more intense version of mountain climbing.

Taking the moment to collect your frankly rampant thoughts, you ease against the chilled stone. 

You don’t know how long it took for you to climb as high as you have; the perpetual darkness makes it difficult to keep track of time. All you do know is that every leap, bound, and burst brings you closer to the apotheosis of the Tower and hopefully, your answers. The void keeps urging you on and you can do nothing but follow like a puppet dancing upon their master’s strings.

 _It’s almost as if your essence doesn’t really belong to you_.

...as much as you hate to admit it, the fact you can instinctively tell what your essence - the void - is ‘saying’ seems a bit odd. As in, gathering from all your knowledge and questions, it wasn’t a normal occurrence. Then again nothing about you was normal: originated in another world entirely, bore a curse which stripped you of your memories, and the fact you can’t use magic...well. 

It makes sense, given you came from a world where magic doesn’t exist. Mona doesn’t know that; neither does Plague Knight or anyone else, for that matter. An anomaly who can only be described using parameters understood with the stunted knowledge available here. Not like anyone has the same frame of reference you do, nor do they have any idea how absolutely ludicrous this whole deal is from your perspective.

But you know you’ve become involved in something bigger than yourself. Why else would you have been singled out by a wannabe tyrant? As much as it sours you to ruminate on, the Enchantress has always been this phantom threat, never really solidified into something beyond the barest hint of a warning she could kill you if the opportunity presents itself. Hell, you don’t even know what the woman _looks like_.

Yet she knows who _you_ are; Specter Knight made that abundantly clear. 

A lingering threat soon to become a haunting promise; the Enchantress would seek you out if she only knew you were here, intruding upon her property. And you are the fool who is goaded upon by their own hollowness, their own - own? - essence to seek out the very woman who may very well kill them. Funny how the thought of death is peripheral to your own wanton desires to understand who you are.

Alone as you might be, aching with dull but ever-present pain and dirtied with stale blood, you briefly wonder if this is worth it. If your answers will satisfy the gnawing emptiness inside and fulfill the blanks which make up your mind. 

_You cannot comprehend what you are trying to unleash_!

Aside from the obvious implication you can’t know what you’re trying to find out in the first place, you realize what you seek may ruin you, inside and out. While the shell you are fails to remember anything at all, the essence nestled between your ribs still carries the remnants of what you experienced, what ‘twisted’ it. Then it begs the question if knowing such pain will bring about anything aside from further suffering.

You don’t know the answer to that. All you do know is that everyone is simply an amalgamation of their own experiences, which in turn fashion themselves into perceptions. There is an explanation for everything, so long as you know the source.

You don’t.

What are you besides a hollow shell of their former self, beguiled by the remains of your true self? There are hardly enough memories contained within your mind to have woven your bitter perception into what it is; the web of experiences which should be there is painfully absent. There is nothing there to even hint at who you were before you dreamt of blinding white and subdued madness. All that remains are the echoes of once was.

You’re just a puzzle piece trying their hardest to fit into another picture which doesn’t even include them. You know you’re a stranger in a world which did not bear you, but from your limited experience in it you know you have a potential place to call home; after all, home is where you make it. The fact doesn’t make things any easier; you just...don’t fit.

Mona and Plague Knight were a joy to watch, their strange sardonic humor bouncing off one another so easily they might as well be the only pieces to their own puzzle. You are a strange addition, one who tries but can’t mesh well enough to be even considered whole or purposeful. The same scenario applies to your relationship with Draak and Styx; you are an outsider intruding upon a connection which doesn’t require another addition, not really. You’re not jealous, but...you do wish you had a place to call your own.

You don’t belong to this world, and it’s almost as if this world doesn’t want you to belong either. 

As it is, you _can’t_ fit. Someone who does not have an identity to call their own can’t belong anywhere; they are, for all intents and purposes, an unperson. They do not exist. And they stay that way, flitting from one place to another like ghosts in a time where such things are in imagination only. Even in this fantastical world where ghosts do exist, you are still more fleeting than they.

You can’t be satisfied with that alone. Not when everything hurts.

A feeble, bitter laugh bubbles up but suffocates behind your heart. The worst part is not knowing what’s hurting you, but not understanding why it hurts so much. All cracks begin with a single point, after all.

While you have been hurt, either directly or indirectly, by blade or word, you don’t know what hurt you so much in the past that you’ve been reduced to _this_. There’s a reason you refuse to let anyone in for fear of them hurting you; there’s a reason you strain so much to hide your feelings away; there’s a reason why any sort of dismissal hurts you more than you can comprehend. 

There’s a reason why you hate people. There’s a reason why you want them to hate you back.

Blinding white, subtle whirring, second skin—

 _It was easier_ , the void says. _But everything has a cost_.

There’s a reason why you hate being you.

How the fuck were you supposed to be satisfied with your existence when you couldn’t understand it in the first place?

… _make a name for yourself_.

You already _have one_. All that’s left is to unbury what made you.

This time, the ugly thing masquerading as a laugh manages to escape your windpipe and resonante against the cold, dead soundings. Because that’s really all you are, right? Just a husk pretending they’re alive even though they lack the basic necessities which define being a person.

No identity to have. No memories to hold. No will to call their own.

All you have at this point are the guidance of the void - the dregs of your _self_ \- and the parting words of those who sought to either help or harm you. Sure, you’ve been betrayed by both Plague and Specter Knight, but that should’ve been a given since they were the only ones who truly saw you for the empty excuse for a person you currently are. But Draak and Styx stuck by your side when it wasn’t necessary; they didn’t really hurt you. Hell, even Mona cared in her own way.

You have to get your answers, lest you let all of them down. No one deserves to be brought down by you, therefore you’ll succeed so they’ll never feel the sense of betrayal you have. 

It will be fine.

Briefly, you pull out your sack and the meager belongings held within. Carefully, you unfold the sheets of parchment and rest your eyes on the familiar, loopy letters which began most of this whole mess. 

Although you don’t recall the exact seminars and the their happenings, you can remember sitting alongside your friends, scribbling down notes as fast as possible without smearing the ink or, in your case, trying to hide your writing from their eyes. They found out anyway, but it still strikes you as ironic they sought to help you because of your particular ‘talent’. Then there was the map, the inky line connecting the village to the Tower in a path which did ensure no one found you...it was nice.

You can’t let this opportunity go to waste, either by your lack of will or by nearly dying to either gravity or any specters. To fail would be the largest betrayal you could levy onto your friends for all they’ve done. 

Reminiscing for a few more minutes, you heave a tired sigh and replace your belongings. Tying the magenta sack closed, you return it to your pocket and stretch your arms a bit. Glancing up, you see more spires climbing into the ominous sky. 

_Higher_ , the void urges. 

Damn it. Well, looks like you still have a lot of scaling to do. Joy.

Well, you assume you do since you haven’t really run into anyone else during your small ascent. Not like it wasn’t a welcome thing; you don’t know how well you’d blend in considering your robes are cut to hell and back with bloodstains to boot, and then there’s the fact Plague Knight probably didn’t send any minions as scouts...Hmm. If there’s anything this world has taught you, it’s improvisation. So whatever.

You can only hope any wayward minions might mistake you for one of them and not someone with their own agenda, but if push came to shove you’d be willing to fight. But you won’t deny the absence of minions with the potential of getting in your way will probably result in an easier run, all things considered. You’ve had your fill of floating platforms and bottomless pits and _spikes_ to last a lifetime. 

Deciding it’s about time to move on, you lift yourself back to your feet. Turning, you note the next spire over is not connected with a clean-cut path, nor one constructed of those damned floating platforms which fall as soon as you touch down on them. Noting the gaping hole in the wall, you decide it’s probably safer to hike through the Tower’s interior than try to find an outside path before plummeting to your death; not like you can conjure yourself anywhere like Plague Knight.

There’s a thought: able to get yourself out of any pesky situations just by willing yourself away. To have that sort of security would be ridiculously helpful, no matter the circumstances; it even saved you, once. Well, Plague Knight did whilst you were the accessory. 

Pausing to stretch your tired limbs some more, you wonder if the lengths you’re going to are truly for your own gain or his. You...as much as you hate to admit it, you still find yourself desperately loyal to the enigmatic man.

Where would you be if it weren’t for him and his prying eyes? He gave you everything you needed and more: a roof over your head, food to energize your scientific pursuits, even a couple companions who grew into something irreplaceable. The alchemist offered you place. It was...that sort of generosity…

Even if he only aimed to use you and your essence, you can’t hold it against him. All you’ve ever wanted was to _be_ wanted. But not like this; never like _this_. 

A broken tool is only useful for so long before it wastes away into uselessness.

Judging by Specter Knight’s lingering words, it seems you stand on the precipice of that happening. Coupled with everything he’s said before, well...you did fool yourself into thinking you would be happy so long as you were wanted, had place, had purpose. 

Even in the face of his betrayal - he knows who you are, how to fix you - you will crawl back into Plague Knight’s ranks once this is over. Well, _if_ you manage to survive seeking out your answers, but you don’t feel like dwelling on that train of thought.

Thoughts of returning to the Potionarium fill your gut with a wistful hope, burning bright and lethal. You’ve only been gone for a little over a week, and here you are wanting to return. _Hah_ , such a sentimental fool you are. 

Still, you doubt everything will return to normal. Mona had deserted to parts unknown, you couldn’t use magic because you weren’t of this world in the first place, and you would fight tooth and nail to not be relegated to the stagnant cycle of repeating old script experiments. You’ve had enough of endlessly spinning as a cog, be it in that white laboratory or the whimsical Potionarium. 

_Home_ , is all the void has to offer on the subject.

You pass under the threshold and sigh in disappointment. The inside of this section was filthy and decrepit, cobwebs spanning nearly all visible nooks and crannies while a dense dust lingered in the air. Thankfully, your mask denied any probable mold spores or other unsavory airborne pathogens entrance to your fleshy epithelial tissues.

Perhaps the only thing more dense than the strings and dust motes was the darkness. Not only were there no light sources, but it seemed like the place was overrun with vermin who bore an uncanny resemblance to living fragments of shadow. As you took another step, one such formless creature let out a tiny squeak and scurried away from your toes and into a nearby hole in the stones. More pairs of yellow eyes greet your curious stare but none came out.

As it were, the reflected lights from outside in their irises proved to be your only light. Navigating through the corridor and bumping into various platforms and iron bars, you meet your match over an upturned footstone. 

Fumbling wildly, you drop undignified onto another pile of rubble. Quietly cursing, you try to will away the abrupt ache the motion caused and gather your bearings. You take a quick peek, wondering if this path was closed off due to more rubble but, still reaching, your fingers find a ladder hanging from the ceiling. Hoisting yourself up, you climb and hope the faint echoes of your motions won’t draw any attention. 

The room above is devoid of all life save for those strange shadowy mites snuggling in the cracks. Thankfully, there are open windows which allowed some of the outside light to seep in, illuminating your surroundings more thoroughly. Dusting yourself off, you take in the lengthy room.

It seems you’ve stumbled upon a dining hall, and a frankly massive one at that. A stoney platform hangs over the level you stand upon, a pair of broken steps leading up to it and a banquet table. An otherwise modest bar decorated the floor below with similar wooden furniture. Ragged banners depicting an ouroboros hung from the ceiling, flapping pathetically in the mild winds from outside. Although fanciful, the place was clearly abandoned and devolved into this decrepit state. 

Your stomach rolls in discontentment, still empty after your toils. How ironic.

Poking about the room, you don’t find anything of interest. Your search for further paths bears no fruit due to piles of rubble blocking anything resembling a doorway. Ruefully, you sigh and kneel at the largest archway with the smallest mound of decaying bricks. If only you had a shovel like those two knights…

A few minutes later, you find yourself snuggling through the opening you dug from the pile. It’s a tight fit, but you successfully squeeze through the top of the entryway and into the neighboring room. 

You find yourself catching your breath for a completely different reason than exertion. 

Books. Shelves upon shelves lined to the brim with books. 

A thrill of excitement ran up your spine and igniting your curiosity through the haze of fatigue hanging over you. Nearly tripping over yourself in your anticipation, you tumbled over the rubble’s slope and deftly ran toward all the tomes, most still sitting happily amongst their peers and a few scattered across the floor. Heart hammering away in your chest, you stop before the bookcases and—

 _Old script_. 

Your eyes quickly scan over all the old spines and the faded ink embedded in them only to meet the familiar, loopy alphabet returning your inquisitiveness. Every single spine with titles were of old script. The hypothesis Styx had suggested turned out to be _true_ ; the previous kingdom - if the Tower of Fate was a remnant from it, and according to Draak and the dragons it was - used old script. 

_Familiar_ , the void burbles happily. You can’t help but agree.

Greedily, you begin to pluck any books with interesting titles from the shelves. Oddly enough, most seem to be akin to textbooks dedicating to the various sciences, but you ignore those in favor of something which can teach you about this mysterious kingdom. Though tattered and nearly falling apart at the seams - _heh_ \- your aches and fatigue are forgotten in your rush to imbibe knowledge from a kingdom long past. 

Gathering your books of choice, you sauntered over to the plush carpet on the far side of the room and plopped down. Although the nearby fireplace lay ashen, the windows present allowed enough light for you to read to your heart’s content.

Prying the old covers apart and cherishing the sound of heavy parchment settling, you linger on the first page. There, drawn in faded but still brilliant, bold inks of green and gold is the sigil of yet another ouroboros. Beneath it rests the title _Land of Hallowpoint: Chronicles of a Kingdom_. If that didn’t scream ‘history,’ you don’t know what did. And—

 _Hallowpoint_. Your mystery empire finally had a name.

You spend what feels like hours scouring through page after page for information. Not even the beginning of a storm accompanied by abrupt flashes and roars of lightning and thunder can pause your curiosity. 

While it certainly seems the Tower of Fate is a remnant of the prio—Hallowpoint, you still want to see if Draak’s hypothesis was also true. Surely there would at least be some sort of hint regarding whether or not there was a curse, and if you were exceptionally lucky, whether or not that curse manifested itself as what you now know as the Enchantress. 

Really, any sort of hint directly linking the woman to the latent empire would be useful toward your curiosity and, if you had the unpleasant luck to meet her, maybe even speaking words around her with a history she played a part in.

While sifting through all the words proved to be fruitful in discovering the machinations of Hallowpoint, none of it provided the evidence to pin down the Enchantress’ origin. Yet, so driven in determining if your friend’s hypotheses hold water, you cannot resist the urge to indulge in the general philosophies of its people in regards to science and magic.

Apparently, Hallowpoint prided itself not only for its macabre but stunning architecture, but also its slew of engineering knowledge. As with most kingdoms, it aimed to be akin to a utopia so all its people could flourish without too much strain. It is for that particular reason why scientists and their practices were so beloved, for they could build new foundations for all to stand upon, so to speak. Invention was rife, and scientific exploits were numerous. 

Well, it certainly explained the slew of scientific books lining the shelves.

Strangely, the royalty were not necessarily in charge of politics or ruling over their kingdom, but were considered the most stunning of intellectual minds within the empire’s borders. As such, their royal duties were to either invent for the sake of their people and kingdom or else recruit scientific prodigies into their court so _they_ could invent.

Odder yet was the caste system. The scientists and engineers were at the top, followed by the architects and priests, who were then preceeded by scribes, historians and politicians; the common folk were those who did not fit into any of the other categories. It was baffling how they organized the importance of the occupations, but the architects and priests were beloved for providing work and heightening morale, respectively. Either way, Hallowpoint did seem highly religious. 

What truly stuck you as odd was the kingdom’s philosophies on magic.

While Hallowpoint knew of an unseen force that mingled with all things, they could not aptly control it for their own ends. Likely because of their arrogance, any power they could not control with their inventions or science was chalked up to be of a higher caliber, something not meant to be trifled with in the first place. Hence magic being considered the power of the gods. 

And that was all there was about magic. The words then went on to describe the founding of the miraculous science of alchemy, but you note how it’s described as nothing more than fancy chemistry. 

Drawing a small sigh, you mindlessly thumb through the remaining pages which document more useless politics or otherwise describe each ruling generation and their scientific exploits. Idly, you reprimand yourself for wanting to conduct alchemical experiments when you cannot even utilize the prerequisite of magic.

 _Magic is an ugly, wretched thing_ , the void hisses. _It sullies all who touch it_.

You blink your weariness away and try to ignore the blithering essence inside. Truly, it seems as if it doesn’t belong to you. There isn’t a lingering doubt in your mind that alchemy - and, consequently magic - could be used for great things; that conclusion was logical. Hell, if it weren’t for alchemy you’d probably never have survived your first encounter with Specter Knight.

 _It is unnecessary_ , is all the void has to offer in return.

Well, that too was true. It’s not like you needed alchemy to survive, but you needed it if you were to ever return to the Potionarium, to Plague Knight. Even then, you’d settle for the barest hint of knowledge it it’s more than you currently own.

Your fingers curl into the weathered covers of your book. He has offered you a place in this world you don’t belong; it would be asinine to throw that away for some petty but admittedly powerful grudge. While you somewhat hate this world for being beholden to different laws than your own, you hate it more so for the fact it or someone from it has stolen your memories.

They took _everything_. And that was inexcusable. 

If you’re going to live here or within an alchemist’s haven, you were going to do so on your own terms.

Silently, you close the book in your lap and exchange it for another, more tattered volume. While there was a suspicious lack of a title, you were drawn to it regardless. The barent hint of Hallowpoint’s sigil - the ouroboros - is imprinted into its cover, scraps of golden ink still remaining. Upon prying its woven covers apart, you immediately notice how odd this book—no, not a book but a _journal_.

The first page was not the normal front material, but a short inscription of who this book belonged to - Madam Manuel, _haha_ \- and what looked like a prayer: May the Light Shine upon Hallowpoint. Odd, but given how seemingly fanatical the kingdom was with its religion - _priests_ were more important than _farmers_ for fuck’s sake - it’s not too unusual. 

Then again, you couldn’t help but compare your newfound knowledge to that which you already understood. Perhaps it was biased toward the first books you read in this world, but that was all you had for a frame of reference.

There was also a timeframe written, but you have no clue what year it is so it doesn’t really help. What _was_ helpful in a roundabout way was that the initial date posted was adjacent to a hyphen but nothing else; the other date was never written.

Interest piqued, you turn the page feel your heart thundering in your skull. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the hunger, but your vision briefly washed in and out as you realized _what_ this journal was.

There, written in barely visible ink, were the words _I, Madam Manuel, humble script for the 109th Apotheosis, dedicate this Telling to Their Grace and Mind; prosperity to Hallowpoint_. 

You know from the other book each ruling generation was referred to as an Apotheosis, and from the wording, a Telling was to inscribe all important events or scientific breakthroughs during each generation. The fact there was no latter date depicting the passing of this Apotheosis to the next...Well. 

Briefly, you flip to the last few pages and curse as some fall out, the twine holding them having worn away. What grabs your attention is the fact the pages scattered amongst your lap and feet are all blank. 

Instead of the unease you expect, a fiery excitement wells within you and you turn back to the beginning.

Careful to not disturb the pitiful spine, you beginning reading about the end of an empire.

Immediately, you noticed how blatantly unabashed this journal was in regards to magic. While it was cast as this horrible, ugly thing in the other book, Madam Manuel didn’t skirt around the issue. Instead, magic was treated like another budding science; after all, it was ‘discovered’ during the 86th Apotheosis. Scanning ahead revealed some… _interesting_ things about Hallowpoint.

People who could use magic was rare but not exceedingly so. If they were to use it, they were quickly carded away into secrecy before a witch hunt could be conducted; the royalty kept an invasively close eye on all their people, much to the latter’s ignorance. Apparently, anyone unusual would be taken for ‘potential’. From there they would be studied like specimens under the watchful eyes of the royal family and those chosen from their highest court. 

To think this is what grew into the law of ‘equivalent exchange’...

 _A life for a life_ , the void supplies. _A few for the greater good_.

More words vaguely describe how many of the subjects ‘failed’ the various testing. You don’t miss how the text goes on the blithely state the rapid decline in sample size and plans to remedy that. For example, could those with magic pass it down to their children? What of their existing family? What—

It goes on but you cannot read any more. You turn to the next section, willing away the simmering rage building within.

The void says nothing but you can feel its unease growing with your own growing disgust. 

It strikes you as enormously odd these magic-wielders did not just take over the kingdom with their powers - like the Enchantress was currently doing - but then your internal question is shortly answered within the next section.

As with most things, learning to tame a new asset took time and effort. This applied to those magic-wielders as well, who honed their skills during their time as experiments for the scientists. Something about postulating magic had concrete laws which, while unknown, could be figured out. Thus they were able to formulate those laws based on given tests; basically scientific theory in action. 

_At what cost_? The void asks.

It certainly helped to keep the whole operation hush hush when all the magic users didn’t really know how to use their talents to protect themselves.

With the formulation of magical laws and a better understanding of how to control the ethereal energy, Hallowpoint then made the effort to use magic for their kingdom. It was from this desire that alchemy was born. 

Meshing the worlds of both science and magic proved to be fruitful in aiding the wellbeing of the kingdom. This was apparent when it came to their technology, as producing the fuels their machinery used was a dangerous occupation. Given magic could both stabilize and enhance something’s inherent properties, the risk was lessened considerably. And with the discovery of arrays and how they could manually control physical changes…how they could ‘enchant’ things beyond the realms of space and time...

Alchemy was dearly beloved within the royal palace and grew to be the pinnacle of all known sciences.

Still nothing about the Enchantress. You continue reading.

But, given the rigorous beliefs which had been perpetuated since Hallowpoint’s founding, no one else could know alchemy was the child of two arts, one of which was openly shamed.

Before magic was understood it was condemned, forever seen as the boon of the gods and only the gods. For a person to use it would be heresy if not blasphemy. To overturn centuries of that mindset with the onset of newfound knowledge was unthinkable. The shifting of baselines is never an easy thing to accept, especially to those who do not understand. Thus alchemy was coined as nothing more than a unique take on the preexisting art of chemistry.

Welp, that explains the other book’s take.

You’ve had the chance to personally see and experience the awe of alchemy up close, and you can’t help but agree that the science is...well, _can_ be miraculous. How it allowed you to deftly ignore known physics in favor of theoretical physics was a breakthrough if you ever heard of one. The things one could do if they studied alchemy…

But all things have a price, even if it’s obtuse. Alchemy was born due to the various experiments conducted on Hallowpoint’s own people, forcing them to learn how to harness their magic. Again, science and even magic are not inherently malevolent nor miraculous; they simply are. _How_ depends on their user.

To think something so wondrous could be born from the loss of your own kin…

Shame wells within you at how dismissive these sacrifices were in the name of science, or invention. Humans—no, people were despicable creatures. There was no honor for those who perished in the various tests, no valor nor credit given after their deaths. 

The most horrific thing about this was the fact the shame you felt so deeply was not because others suffered for science’s, _alchemy’s_ cause. No; your empathy lay not for them but the fact you still wish to see more alchemy, regardless of the corpses making up its foundation. Sacrifices for the greater good, but you don’t understand _why_ those words resonate with you so.

 _No cost too great_ , the void hisses.

You don’t care yet you realize you _should_ , but you just...can’t. There’s only hollow pangs of true sorrow where your empathy should be screaming. 

_It’s easier this way_ , the void supplies. _Always has been and always will be_.

You say nothing but the musing offers some comfort. A bitter laugh withers and dies inside your chest; how incredibly ironic, how incredibly selfish. Still no guilt for your apathy.

 _Better them than us_ , the void says.

...so what was the reason for all the guilt, the shame, the despair cradled in your essence?

Mechanically, you turn the page and continue reading. There’s more scientific jargon you don’t care enough to actually read, skimming over ‘important’ discoveries or newfound studies for this and that. There’s also quick observations of the people’s growing unease regarding the abrupt disappearances, but of course the royal family does nothing to address the concerns.

Vaguely, you recall the heir to the throne being mentioned every so often, but strangely all information is rather obtuse regarding them. When it eventually crops up that they’re ill, it makes more sense but it’s still odd how the text regarding them rapidly switches from passive to heartfelt in the same sentence. Something or other about tests being conducted and— _oh_.

You skim more sections and find scattered notes regarding the heir’s predicament before stumbling upon something. 

_The child has more potential than most of the subjects yet is unable to complete the tests. Data requisition has been slowing down and the sample size diminishes every moon cycle; They ordered more tests be conducted to combat the deficiency._

More words later on continue to display the callous indifference to the plight of the heir, with Madam Manuel even going on to lament the child’s poor fate of being born with magic. To be fair minded, the royal family used their own child as a specimen. A true scientist pries away from personal bias, but...where was morality ever accounted for? What of knowledge, of wisdom?

It’s almost painfully reminds you of your own beliefs. _How could you expect to conduct miracles if nothing was wrong in the first place_?

Ah, _there’s_ the shame.

 _Better them than us_ , the void repeats. You don’t miss how its unease grows.

Then the text quickly shifts away from observing the various subjects, including the heir, into the precise thesis being conducted on them. If magic could enchant physical matter beyond their normal boundaries, and coupled with the fact people are made up of physical matter...surely it would be possible to enchant a person beyond their basic makeup? 

What little shame welled within you quickly dissipated into a keen interest. 

More idle notes describe what you can only assume is a curse manifesting itself for the first time. _Those who successfully completed the enchantment were warped beyond recognition_ ; how quaint. What few descriptions there are don’t dissapoint to paint a horrendous picture: some outright perished after becoming nothing more a piles of unorganized flesh, others had their skin melt off before turning into what you assume are boneclangs, and even one man’s physical body dissipated only for his soul to attach to his beloved armor. 

And the others—

The worst part of these experiments was the fact they allowed the royal scientists to realize _anyone_ could ‘utilize’ magic via an array. As Mona said, you simply offer yourself up as a conduit for it to use if you can’t willingly control it as natural magic-users can. So the people being experimented on couldn’t really escape even if they tried...coupled with the fact their latent magic most likely amplified whatever effect were being forced upon them…

—what happened to them?

How similar to your own past with the white place. Even if the machines did most of the work, your hands were no less stained given the part you played. 

More words, more senseless research testing the capacity for enchantments, more death. Soon enough the term ‘curse’ is used less as a punishment from the gods and more for the crimes of humanity in their endless pursuit of knowledge. How cumbersome. 

Soon enough, the words and their immaculate organization fall away.

The letters are messy and are not copied onto the pages in straight, professional lines. They become scrambled, some scratched out messily and others smudged into uncertainty. What few lines you can decipher describe a hilarious but fitting end.

_a fire in the p **alace**_

_a revolution they car **ry weapons**_

The void writhes as a memory - memory? - forces itself into the forefront of your mind. 

The visage of countless people crowd around your trembling, cowering form. You look up at them - you love them because you’re supposed to - and try to plead but nothing comes out. They’ve seen, they know now - _know what_? - and the glint of their swords seem more like a promise than a threat. You don’t want this, you don’t want them to hurt you; _haven’t you hurt enough_? 

They step closer and you can only crawl so far with the fear pinning you down. Their voices mingle and tangle with one another until individuality is lost, but still you can hear their chorus of _We’re sorry, forgive us, have mercy, we’re so so sorry_.

And then—

The void cries.

 _And then_ —

You turn the page. The quill scratched clean through the previous paper and into the next couple pages, ink blotchy and staining the tear further. A few more pages later, you find the barren answer to the journal’s wound.

You don’t miss how ashen these pages are, nor the grime clinging to the faint smudges of ink. It’s especially difficult to ignore the dots speckling the paper and the strange quality of the ink caught in their circumference. More telling are the barely legible words hastily scribbled on and falling off the page.

_i cannot **brea**_

And all the scribbled, garbled words stop. All the pages left within the book’s binding are conspicuously blank pages with nary a drop of ink decorating them. 

_Where did the bodies go_?

...

A harsh shudder wracks your frame and you hunch in on yourself, ignoring the stinging sensation crawling up your sinuses and behind your eyes. It’s too late for remorse, but you cannot help but feel the pangs of despair inside your ribs or ignore the indifference of the void itself. It resonates with the emptiness of the Tower around you.

The gentle pitter patter of the rain outside reminds you to stay put for the time being. So you wait, alone with the void and your thoughts. But there’s hardly anything you want to think about right now.

You carefully close the tattered volume and set it aside. Slowly bringing yourself to your feet, you idly dust off your garments and return your burst potion to your hand. 

The void heaves a stunted laugh. _How ironic_.

It is. But you know enough about cycles to realize the statement doesn’t truly end. After all, you already know science, be it an amalgamation adjacent to magic or not, is not good or bad; it merely is. How depends on its user. Then again, people are not immune to their own knowledge, especially if they never account for their morality. Wisdom is pitiable in its rarity.

You are no different. If anything, you’ve continued the cycle of fallacy.

 _Does it matter_? The void questions. _You are just another statistic, another number to tally and nothing more_.

You know that, too. Cycles are perpetual, after all.

With a quick hop and well-timed burst, you land safely in the room below from the hole gouged in its ceiling. It takes a few seconds to gather your bearings - light-headed from hunger if not dehydration - and adapt to the darkness. While a few would-be stained glass windows are built into the walls, both colorful and plain shards litter the floor.

Carefully toeing your way around the pieces - glass could very well cut through your leggings - you stand before a giant mirror stand. Its reflective surface lay in pieces at your feet, but its frame is undeniably ominous. 

You feel nothing.

 _As you should_ , the void states.

Your attention is drawn to the fragments sprinkled around your feet, sparking with what little light drifts through the windows and their broken glyphs. Carefully, you look down and see a multitude of your image trapped in the confines of the shards. It’s almost like a twisted version of that presentation you gave in that lab so long ago. Great minds think alike, do they not?

A quiet, dead thing pretending to be a laugh falls from your lips. 

You stare at the lingering pieces of glass and see a monster of your own making returning your stare. Science can birth many things, and alchemy is no different. And to think things escalated so far…

Hallowpoint’s sigil is hilariously succinct; the snake which attempts to consume its own tail. _Ha ha_.

If you focus, the mirror images of yourself are briefly replaced by those faceless people of the visage, the glints from the lights of their swords. If you imagine it, you can feel their points dig into you, much like the glass from your first burst potion and the blade of a reaper. 

_Were your answers worth it_? The void snarls. 

You cannot bring yourself to reply. How can you when what you’ve managed thus far is more akin to a hypothesis? And a true scientist would test their question if not seek confirmation; you have the data, after all.

The void shudders once, twice. _Emptiness is more befitting a vessel_.

Ignoring the wicked fragments of refracted light scattered among your feet, you move to the end of the room. There, a large opening of crumbling stones reacquainted you with the outside, the sickly green of the sky and dreary blanket of storm clouds filling your vision. The rain is still falling, but an abrupt pain in your gut informs you that you can’t afford to waste what little time you have left.

It’s so similar to the circumstances you initially woke to: a gnawing hunger, a bone-deep fatigue, and aching injuries collected from your mistakes. 

But now you have the means to at least remedy some of your foolishness.

You grip your burst potion and agitate it, surveying the darkness swallowing the path laid out before you and up into the highest point of the Tower.

Cycles can end.

You hope.

**—**

Ascending the Tower of Fate from its entrance to its central spire proved to be a gargantuan task. It certainly didn’t help matters that you were starving at the same time your nerve endings signaled their pain nonstop. Then again, you had it pretty easy given the strange occurrences during your climb, what with the lack of encountering other scouts and hidden shortcuts opening to you as soon as you unknowingly approached them.

Even with the undeniable aid you receive from these passages, your weary body was forced to traverse in the darkness with a perpetual rain beating down on you. Slipping on the variety of floating platforms and dilapidated bridges was more common than you’d like to admit, and you’ve nearly fallen off at multiple points. Then there was the small but persistent breeze...

Yet for all its nefarious traps and challenge, the Tower was a beautiful thing to behold.

The blanket of clouds never ceased their crying, but it was mesmerizing watching them twist and coil through the sky at their own surprisingly leisurely pace. What little light managed to pierce them lit up the sky in a strange shade of green, but the thunderous roars and brilliance lightning strikes illuminated the Tower and its finer details so much more. It was as terrifying as it was gorgeous. 

Body wracked with muted shivers, you burst onto the highest platform and struggle to lift yourself atop it. Once you manage to claw your way onto its slick surface, you collapse in a heap and try to catch your breath. Still struggling to right your erratic breathing, you glance up at the massive door leading further into the Tower. Thankfully, it was askew enough for you to slip under and you hurry over to it.

You briefly take notice of the intricate if robust design etched into its surface. A massive arm is clenched around a circular object; upon closer inspection, it’s an ouroboros. Of course. But a couple of dragons - with wings and tails, both which Draak lacked - fill the rest of the space. Then again, dragons were also pretty commonly depicted in the various banners and stained glass windows; maybe Hallowpoint had a thing for reptilian entities?

Without a second glance, you hurriedly slip beneath the massive slab of stone.

Darkness immediately fills your vision. Knowing your burst potion doesn’t produce nearly enough light to guide you - not strong enough of an exothermic reaction - you pocket the bottle and nearly drop it in the process as a massive groan sounds behind you. Sure enough, looking back you watch the entryway seal itself, what little light from outside being swallowed by the Tower’s shadows. The grinding of whatever mechanism operating the door ends as soon as it completely blocks your way back.

No other option than to move forward. 

Although navigating through the darkness has become more annoying than anything, you admit it’s far easier with the few candles which light up at your approach. It’s strangely reminiscent of the Potionarium, as are the various nooks and crannies along your path. After all, more of those otherwise hidden shortcuts made themselves apparent with the groaning and shifting of stone doors. Made things easier.

Perhaps the more annoying thing besides the darkness were all the howling growls emanating from your empty stomach. You knew you were on a timer; only had so many hours before you’d be too weak to continue without issue. Coupled with all your injuries...you had to hurry.

 _No need_ , the void mumbles. _No longer necessary_.

You almost snort. What, it’s not gonna keep telling you to go higher? You had a nigh-invulnerable magic-user to meet with.

The void hisses it’s displeasure. _Her magic will tarnish what’s left_.

You pretend to hum thoughtfully. Out loud, dim echoes of your voice resound as you playfully say, “She gets what she wants and so do I. Equivalent exchange, right?” You smile, but it’s a hollow thing. Repeating the Alchemeister’s words, you mutter, “And I am nothing if not an alchemist.”

 _Your actions bear consequences_ , the void laughs, almost sardonically. _Will they destroy us again_?

You laugh. Really, is it too hard to have a little faith? You’ve managed to survive in a hostile world thus far with...well, some fairly major accidents. But still!

 _It is difficult to hope_ , the void muses, _when the concept is foreign to both you and I_.

And to think you were, at one point, just like the void snuggled beneath your ribs. One and the same, before...How odd.

 _It’s easier like this_ , the void repeats. But you know that already.

You pause. Briefly, you remove your personal satchel of goods and card your fingers over the thick pieces of parchment. You think of the notes you wrote using the materials both Styx and Draak offered so freely. You think of the map they gave so your journey wouldn’t be as perilous as it could’ve been. You think of your friends.

Returning the small sack to your robe, you heave a heavy sigh. Even it you’ve long since lost hope for yourself and escaping the cage you’ve built, you can at least hope for their sake. 

Don’t betray them.

 _How senselessly optimistic_ , the void chastises. _You know nothing will come of it_.

“Then at least let me pretend,” you quietly plead to the empty hallway. “One cannot wish if they cannot hope.”

The void stills. Then, _wishes are dangerous things_.

How ironic.

You don’t say anything, instead placing one foot in front of the other. Slowly but surely, through many twists, turns and more unseen shortcuts, you arrive in a massive dome of a room.

There a multiple obsidian floors, gleaming wickedly in the light filtering through the various stained glass windows. A harrowing, winding staircase winds up and through the floors you can see, but they disappear into the shadows coalescing at the ceiling of the room. Or where you believe the ceiling to be.

Huffing, you try to mentally prepare for the task of scaling all those steps with your broken, weak excuse for a body. You were so, so tired but you were finally _here_. So you ignore the writhing discomfort of your aching muscles and begin sauntering - more like limping, really - up the stairs. Bursting on an uneven surface in your state was just asking for trouble.

There’s hardly anything accompanying you, save for the periodic bursts of lightning and ringing of thunder emanating through the towering - haha - windows. But there’s some respite in scaling this staircase compared to the Tower’s other paths.

But the more you ascend, the more sounds you hear that aren’t the howls of the weather outside or the internal musings bouncing around inside your head. The faintest vibrations crawl through your soles and resonate with your feet before petering out.

Something presses you to hurry and you heed your instincts.

The closer you get to the apex of the staircase and the topmost floor, the more you understand what’s occurring.

It certainly helped when you caught the faintest high-pitched _whoosh_ of a bomb being hurled at you before a brilliant light and searing heat engulfed your senses.

Falling back and collapsing onto the stone floor, you can briefly catch the end of a painfully familiar series of titters, followed shortly thereafter by a pained grunt. You’re not sure if it was your own voice or someone else’s.

It takes a few moments for you to gather your bearing enough to sit upright, clutching at the front of your robes while the familiar burn of chemical bombs made itself painfully - _haha_ \- apparent. No more bombs are hurled in your direction, or rather at all. Instead, the gentle lull of voices greets your prying ears.

You can barely make out what’s being said, mind too focused on what fills your eyes.

The woman— _the Enchantress_ , the void supplies harshly—she’s floating so high she’s seems like a tiny silhouette against the empty window sills behind her. She peers down at the familiar hooded figure of Plague Knight, eyes calculating and cold. Then—

—the void hisses in disgust, but—

—you, _you_ can’t dismiss the feelings of—

 _Shame, guilt, despair_ , the void snarls.

—of yearning, of home, of _place_.

A brilliant, griseous orb erupts from her chest, swirling in a cacophony of magenta and black. Her essence is just as beautiful as those trapped within the Dynamo Decanter back at the Potionarium, glittering and gleaming in pride like nothing’s managed to sully them. Glittering and gleaming like the points of a thousand swords aimed at you. Glittering and gleaming like the hefty magenta jewel resting upon her brow.

 _Where did the bodies go_?

The void _screams_.

All you can do is release a small thing pretending to be stronger than it is. A breath? A laugh? A sigh? _Hahahaaa_.

Shakily, you pry yourself to your wobbling feet, staining under your own weight— _what a funny thing it is, to have weight when you don’t have worth, ahahaha. Oh, but that’s merely the result of gravity acting upon mass; matter which won’t. Leave. You. Alone_!

No cost too great.

It’s fine.

You ignore the two distinct stares boring into your tattered form as you struggle to approach their owners. What a hideous thing it is to be pitied for circumstances you can control. Even more disgusting is to accept these circumstances you created yourself. Ha ha how deprived you are.

“M- _minion_?!” Plague Knight squawks as he clutches the newly bottled essence, bulbous flask nestled against his chest. He stutters, trying to collect himself and failing. “Y-you shouldn’t— _how_ —”

You heave a sigh; at his incredulousness or your own you don’t know. “...m’sorry, boss. You’ll understand in a bit.” _Like I never could, not really. Then again, you already realized; right, Plague Knight_?

Instead, your tired gaze flits over to the floating woman. Her pink eyes greet your unseen ones.

Time to cross reference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here we are, at the penultimate chapter (unless I go through with an epilogue; we'll see).
> 
> Obviously there's a lot of lore to sift through in this one, and it's probably at this point this story makes it's AU status _heavily_ apparent. Then there's the fact this chapter is also heavy with the introspection; for good reason, I assure you. If you can bear through this, then I thank you for your time and effort since I left things kinda vague. There's a reason for these things, of course, but I still hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As always, thank you all so, so very much for the kind words and your own thoughts! I love hearing from you guys, even if I don't reply (don't want to fill up the comments section with my own useless babble)!!
> 
> Time to finish this next time!


	15. The Martyr

Nothing but silence reigns in these empty halls. 

As with most others who succeed you in every possible manner - power, worth, place - the Enchantress stares down at you like another stagnant specimen displayed beneath a microscope’s lens; you’re not particularly interesting but it’s better to humor you than not. Might prove interesting. 

A dry laugh bubbles up but shrivels and dies behind your heart. This would certainly be interesting.

The void shivers in either silent fury or relentless fear. You don’t care enough to differentiate; it’s not _you_ , not really. Then again, it’s not like you know who you are.

“Hmm…” The Enchantress hums almost thoughtfully, but the uncaring edge of her eyes does not fool you. Her irises slide over to Plague Knight, who quickly returns his attention to his leader. Voice surprisingly light and airy, the woman continues, “And here I believed you could control your own pawns, little alchemist.”

You watch in empty curiosity how the small knight nearly flinches at her words. His legs shiver and he holds his flask close, her essence happily swirling away inside its prison. A pause, then he looks back at you yet remains stonily silent. Instead, he fumbles with his belt and—

You can only watch as he hastily shoves his flask into his satchel before being engulfed in a swath of green flames. Ah, conjuration; haven’t seen that trick in a while. 

As expected, he appears directly in front of you and you simply sway to the side, out of reach from his outstretched hand. You weren’t stupid; as soon as he gets his hands on you he’s going to spirit you away back to the Potionarium, no doubt. You retaliate by producing your own burst potion and hurriedly using it and your sleeves to propel you further into the room.

Your landing was less than graceful, but you manage to remain upright and return the silent fury emanating from the alchemist. Ignoring the fresh wave of burning pains lacing through all your injuries, too tired to piece together all the turbulent thoughts inside your head - betrayer betrayer BETRAYER - you simply state, “Not yet.”

“You were never supposed to come here!” He immediately screeches. “You—my research—!”

 _He never cared_ , The void hisses. _He never cared_ —!

A frown makes its way onto your lips. Plague Knight’s awfully emotional right now; more unstable than he usually is. You should probably tread carefully.

You glance back up at the Enchantress, her eyes glinting in poorly hidden amusement. Don’t look at the— _faces, swords, fear fear FEAR_ —Well, seems like you had an audience.

The ethereal woman’s eyes squint as she daintily holds a hand in front of her mouth. She releases a pompous laugh, irises flickering over to the silently fuming visage of Plague Knight. “My, my…” her stilted voice intones, “A defiant one, are they not…? _Ohoho_ , how apt.”

You figure she probably knows Plague Knight’s a traitor, and given the fact her essence is currently being held at his hip, she doesn’t mind too much. That and you watched her willingly offer her essence; _not hers, not hers_.

The Enchantress emits another ghoulish laugh as Plague Knight bursts at you. It doesn’t take much to realize he’s considerably weak, given how easily it is for you to dodge his advances in your state. Still you continue this same old song and dance because it’s all you have left at this point.

Dodge this, feigh that.

Twist here, turn there. 

You will obey as you’ve always done, a puppet twiddling away on their strings. For as flighty as you are, it is fitting your desires are even more so. A shame others had to be caught in your aftermath, goaded by the same instinct to learn, to know, to understand.

But you’re no fool when it comes to that. As with knowledge and wisdom, there’s a fine distinction between what it means to know and to understand. 

You already know.

But you still don’t _understand_.

A familiar green fog caresses your wounds through the wrappings, another brilliant swath of green flames light up in your peripheral. You sway - tired, far too tired - side to side, fleeting as the empty air caught between the alchemist’s grasp. It’s terribly ironic, not because you’re slipping through his fingers but because it’s a terrible thing to force someone to endure.

Betrayals are always painful because you allowed them close enough to hurt you.

You can only watch in a daze as his familiar plague doctor-shaped mask flits in and out of your vision like a dream. He has been there since the onset, has provided you everything you could possibly need, a place to return to if need be, but…

“I’m sorry, Plague Knight,” you whisper through the tightness of your throat as he jumps past your feint. Finger hovering over the button on your own burst potion, you softly state, “But I don’t think I can come back.”

... _you already know_ , the void begins quietly. _Why isn’t that good enough anymore_?

The small knight answers by disappearing into another blanket of fire. Briefly, you glance at the woman watching your dance and see her eyes flicker— _there_.

It’s a quiet dance, no music filtering through the empty air hanging around you. Only the continuous sound of rain manages to fill the distance you’ve built between you and the knight.

You twist just as brilliant green blazes in your peripheral, deftly stepping out of the alchemist’s reach again. His mask tilts toward you as you hop away, shoulders aching as you prep for another burst. Potion simmering gently against you gloved hand, you lean down.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. His mask follows your own, confused stare boring into your own stinging one. “But this can’t go on.”

 _Why do you need to understand_? The void asks. _Why does it matter anymore_?

All things have a beginning and an end. Cycles are no different; they have a beginning and an end. You are but one of many participants of this endeavor, a face in the crowd— _swords, fear, pain pain PAIN_ —another puppet in the collection.

A green mask, carved into the likeliness of a bird’s beak and hidden beneath a worn navy hood. A brilliant if unhinged mind who is a slave to his own unfaltering curiosity and intelligence, fighting against circumstances unfairly forced upon him.

A golden visor, cast in the perpetual shadow of a crimson hood and mantle. A enigmatic if bitter personality whose will and determination are unyielding as the blade of scarlet and steel he always carries, sworn unfairly into circumstances beyond his control.

Both victims of circumstance. Both victims of this cruel cycle.

 _Why do you care so much_? The void questions. _You never have before, so why now_?

You don’t want to voice your reasoning; you don’t want to admit your feelings for fear they are wrong, yet...For all the struggles which have presented themselves to you, either in the form of a small errant alchemist or a lonesome reaper, you’d like to believe they actually _cared_ for you.

 _They don’t_ , the void urges. _No one does_...

That’s a lie.

A boy with raven-black hair and sharp emerald eyes with an endless thirst for knowledge flickers through your mind. He was kind, unnecessarily so to stick by your side when it was not needed. Time and time again he proved a valuable ally if not an irreplaceable friend.

A dragon with brilliant viridian and black scales comes next, jagged mouth aligned into a gentle smile despite all his hardships. He too was unfaltering in his hospitality, so strong and sure in contrast to his soft heart. You cherished his nigh-endless support and unfailing friendship. 

A woman with eerie mint skin and onyx hair follows, stunningly brilliant in her experience and intelligence. Although her stoic attitude and disinterested mannerisms said otherwise, you valued her honest virtues and the hidden kindness she held for her underlings.

You allowed them to be close, even knowing the risk. But instead of throwing that fragile trust you held in people back in your face, they covetted it and helped you in their own ways. They _cared_.

It was...nice, to be wanted. Even if it was for a short while.

But your place is no longer by their sides. 

People are not inherently cruel or kind, they simply are. Emotions are no different. But _how_ depends on their actions, on their effects, on their behaviors. 

How can you return to them after what you’ve done?

You weren’t stupid; Styx, Draak and even Mona were all caught under the same current which shackled Plague Knight. Sworn into secrecy and their lives treated as forfeit the moment Specter Knight came and placed the cuffs on their leader...But nothing can truly hold down the errant alchemist’s mind once his interest has been likewise captured, and the treason he commits only serves to salt the wounds of his underlings. It’s as vicious as it is expected, given the circumstances. 

But they never deserved to be a participant in this cycle; they never deserved what you did.

It’s difficult to change circumstances beyond your control. But now you know enough to actually do so.

 _It was easier_ , the void mourns. _It used to be so much easier_ …

For who?

Unbidden, the memory of the lab flashes to the forefront of your mind. You remember the stagnant smell, the mechanical sounds, the redundant days of general idleness, and an all encompassing white. How tragically ironic that the experiments you had conducted played perfectly into the cycle which refuses to part ways with you. 

You muster the tiniest of smiles, hidden beneath your mask. You know what you did; _why_ you did it. But no matter how hard you tried to be apathetic, to ignore the swelling guilt, to rid the festering shame, to pretend it was okay—it never worked. It hurt and still hurts because you still managed to _care_.

For all its complaining and grief, you and the void were - at one point in time - one and the same. But something happened and your paths diverged; you, the hollow shell of who you used to be and the void, what remains. Time may be able to heal all wounds, but it moves too slowly for you both to mesh into being whole once more. 

Even so, you were never as truly heartless as you’d like to be. Of course you know how much easier it would be to remove yourself from the pain you’re inflicting, be it intentional or not, but the constant ache you feel attests to the fact that you still care. 

You _both_ do, if the shame, guilt, and despair held within the void says anything.

That sentimentality which burns brighter than even your intelligence, which has been with you since the onset, which has urged your way to the Tower of Fate...It’s difficult to ignore things you care about. As it is, it’s basically the only principle holding you together.

Another burst, another dip as green fingers barely miss your robes. You know he can’t go on like this, and he knows you can’t either. So you don’t immediately jump away, instead staggering a few steps from him. Your burst potion stills as its distinctive warmth leaves your palm, agitation lost in your pause. His does the same.

Only your quiet breaths linger in the air between you.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again. You can only watch as the small knight’s shoulders hunch defensively. You continue regardless of the sharp sting in your throat, “But you know this can only end one way.”

Plague Knight is quick to bristle before gritting out, “I’ll see to it that this will only end with you in a cell back at the lab!”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” You retort, voice heavy with latent frustration and fatigue. 

The knight curls in on himself. “...It was a fool’s errand for you to come here.”

A brittle laugh bubbles up. “That’s—” _exactly what he told me_. “...I know.”

His hand goes to the heavy satchel hanging at his waist, gripping the neck of the flask peeking out from beneath the indigo fabric. Essences are fragile things and her’s is no exception. You should feel some joy at the fact time is on your side, but…

The sound of glass hitting the floor shatters the quiet. 

You glance down as the pear-shaped bottle rolls into stillness, casing miraculously in tact. _Ah_ , you must’ve dropped it; how careless. It almost mimics the feeling inside your chest.

You return your attention to the small figure before you. Your heart swells with gratitude and shame, and you dearly hope he never allowed himself to be close enough to you to be hurt by your selfish actions. You hope he isn’t hurt by your betrayal.

“...why did you even come…?” The alchemist requests not unkindly. He’s tired, as are you.

The void huddles against your ribs.

You will away the tightness of your throat and the stinging behind your eyes. “Because wishes are dangerous things.”

The void weeps.

Plague Knight’s mask barely tilts up at you. A brief silence passes between you, the outside world lost to the revelations taking place in the empty air. As always, you cannot see past the dark lens of his mask nor make out his eyes through the inky abyss inside, but he’s smart enough to know that _you_ know.

“I thought I was lucky to have recruited you,” Plague Knight begins softly, voice petering out in a soft series of stunted giggles. “ _Hee hee hee_...what a waste of talent.”

You can’t help but smile softly at that. 

It’s strange how you’re the one hurting him yet you’re also in pain.

“ _Ohoho_...” You barely glance up at the Enchantress as she releases another giddy yet hollow laugh. “How pointlessly touching...I suppose I can remedy this minion if you can’t, little alchemist.”

You feel the heat before you watch as he conjures bright magenta flames, holding the spirals gently in her open palms. It reminds you of the same destructive magic the Black Knight had used against you before. And while the magic promises pain as soon as it makes contact, regardless of the chemical-coated robes adorning you, it fails to instill a fraction of fear.

Not when you plead for mercy in front of an uncaring crowd, not when they echo you fruitless cries and not when they plunge their weapons into you.

But you can see Plague Knight tense in the edges of your vision, and that stabbing guilt - he _cares_ and now he’s _hurting_ because of _you_ \- resurfaces. You don’t want him to hurt any more than what he’s already enduring.

A shallow laugh cuts the tension.

You ignore the piercing gaze of both the Enchantress and Plague Knight as your hollow giggles continue, your shoulders shaking in poorly restrained mirth. 

“You dare scoff at _me_?” The Enchantress’s smile drops and is instead replaced with the slight furrow of her brow and narrowing of her eyes. The magic cradled in her hands - why does it seem so familiar? - grows in tandem with her poorly hidden anger. 

“Did you know,” you start, voice lax as you tilt your head up at the floating woman, “Everything has a cost, and magic is no different...?”

Plague Knight flinches in your peripheral, but you pay him no mind. 

Unfalteringly, you stare up at the Enchantress whose eyes furrow more into a glare as time marches forth. But she doesn’t make to move so you continue on, unperturbed.

“That for as powerful as it is,” you state, voice struggling to escape the vice that is your throat, “Magic’s price is a far steeper one to pay when it comes to enchantments—”

The Enchantress’s eyes flash dangerously but you pay no heed.

“—especially if it is used to enchant something beyond space and time.” You unintentionally sway back and forth on the balls of your feet; you’re so, so tired. Have to end this quickly.

“Did you know,” you say, ignoring the pair of gazes boring into your tattered form, “A person can be enchanted across space and time, too…?”

“ _Minion_ —” Plague Knight whispers, but it’s lost to the empty air.

You can’t help it; you laugh again, bubbly and bright. The void continues to cry.

 _Do you know what it would cost_?

The amulet resting on the Enchantress’s brow shimmers along with the fire in her hands.

“Wretched little thing,” her voice is like the tide after an earthquake, tremendous yet deep. “If you had wanted a dance to the death, then _I would have made a more fitting partner_.”

Your voice threatens to erupt into another fit of laughter but you manage to quell it. Instead, you watch as the floating woman rears back to likely fling her magic toward you. Briefly, you can see Plague Knight restlessly fidget from your peripheral; it grows worse the longer you refuse to pick up your abandoned burst potion.

It’s time to prove your hypothesis.

Fingers nearly numb and trembling, you slowly reach up and slip them into your hood.

“What a shame,” your voice fails to display the fear taking root in your chest, stuttering your already frantic heartbeat. It’s a strangling feeling, leaving your palms clammy and uncomfortable inside your gloves just like back then in the white lab.

Your fingers fumble with the felt hooks and clamps binding it to your mask.

“Especially after everything you did—” you continue, looking directly up at the woman whose face contorts into unrestrained rage and then falls away into abrupt confusion. The bright jewel on her head continues to glimmer and reflect the brilliant flames in her grasp.

You pry the familiar mask from your face, hood falling to your shoulders with nothing left to keep it in place. 

Your eyes squint in either joy or resignation as they meet her own wide ones.

“—to summon me back.” 

The heat dissipates into the stagnant chill of the room.

You take a moment to glance down at the magenta mask held in your hands. It’s an obnoxious color, but over time it’s faded ever so slightly and the stitching running alongside it is worn. For a bit you were glad to have something tying you to Plague Knight: the same chemical-coated robes, the same mask carved into a bird beak’s image, the same passion for science and all its pursuits. 

The two of you were strangely similar in that regard. Steadfast and stubborn, refusing to halt your actions once you’ve set your mind on something; he with his ultimate potion and you with your answers. 

He must have realized this, too. You watch as his shoulders tremble before falling along with the barest hint of a sigh. 

You lovingly trail your gloved fingers across the familiar mask which has served you well these past months. Of course, the true merit of this memento rests not with its physical loyalty, but the fact it has hid you from mostly everyone. 

You return your steady gaze to the Enchantress, whose arms fall to her sides in subdued shock. You pause and offer her a smile but she does not return it.

The mask was always good at hiding the fact your smiles never truly reached your eyes.

You think you understand why, now.

For once, you’re not overjoyed your hypothesis was supported. 

Belatedly, the Enchantress’s billowing cloak briefly stills almost as if a testament to her own stupor. She continues to stare down at you, pink eyes wide and amulet dull. Then her voice, once so commanding and massive in its presence is now reduced to a husk of its former glory. She quietly whispers your name in the quiet, and you simply close your eyes and allow yourself to purge the visage away with minimal success. 

You hear the faintest echo of your name on their lips before it too is drowned beneath a sea of crying, of wanting forgiveness, of pleading for mercy as if they deserve it.

“...you’re _here_ ,” the Enchantress states almost reverently. Then her lips pulls upward in what you can only describe as a genuine smile and a wicked smirk wrapped into one. Soon enough the atmosphere begins to swell in tandem with the laughter erupting from her, rising in volume and desperation. When the laughter finally dies, she heaves a sigh and states, “I’ve waited for over a millennium...”

You smile but say nothing. Of course it must have been a long time, given the fact Hallowpoint has long since fallen and the founding of Pridemoor occurred centuries ago. Then again, time would have never been a problem for its continued existence when you account for the rumors and subsequent curiosity surrounding the Tower of Fate; truly, it was only a matter of time until someone suitable came along. After all, magic cannot channel itself.

You want to ask her how many lives wasted away during her wait and how many more were used up summoning you back here. Instead you bite down on your tongue and cradle your mask to your chest as if to comfort the weeping void nestled there.

“But it is inconsequential,” the Enchantress continues, face no longer marred with something pretending to be a smile. Her arms spread in an affectionate manner, gesturing to you as if greeting a long-lost friend. You almost laugh again but settle for returning her smile just as her voice breaks the stillness once more. “You are here, and that is all which matters.”

Briefly, her eyes flit over to Plague Knight standing off to the side. They narrow, regaining that harsh edge from before. “I should thank you, little alchemist,” she begins, but her voice lacks the saccharine edge when she speaks to you, “For maintaining them in my absence. However—”

Her eyes grow bright and dangerous as a familiar heat fills the room, magical flames licking away in her grasp. Plague Knight simply hunches in on himself defensively, turning his flask away from her.

“—you are no longer needed.”

With that, the Enchantress swings her arm back and without pause swings it forward, hurling the congealed magic forward. It’s as brilliant as it is powerful; Plague Knight doesn’t have enough time to burst completely out of the way and, barely caught in the magic’s explosive impact, fails to disguise a pained hiss. 

It’s all the respite he has before another swath of destructive magic washes over him, exploding upon hitting the ground beneath his feet. You feel the latent vibrations of the impact in the soles of your feet, and can only watch in a trance as Plague Knight’s body is propelled from the epicenter.

Time seems to slow down as you watch him fall. 

You clutch your mask tighter, ignoring the festering guilt building behind your eyes. You slowly turn your head toward him, and he returns your gaze. For a brief, fleeting moment, his hand reaches out toward you before his fingers grow lax; he can’t reach you anymore. You catch the barest sound of his voice over the heartbeat pounding between your ears, and although you cannot make sense of the words you offer him your most sincere smile. You hope it reaches your wet eyes.

And then his small body is swallowed up by the darkness waiting below.

It’s only then when his parting words fall into place like a demented jigsaw puzzle. He had called—no, _screamed_ your name before plummeting down into the floors beneath you.

“...—! _Don’t_ —!”

You had wanted to part ways with him on more amiable terms, when you were in your right frame of mind to channel your innermost, weakest thoughts. You had wanted to allow yourself to be completely and utterly vulnerable as you thanked him for everything he’s done for you. You had wanted to show him your emotions were not as unstable as he believed because you and the void are so, so different now. 

But some endings aren’t so lucky.

Carefully, you return your attention to the floating woman before you. Before you can get a word out, her expression morphs back into one of contentment. She trails her eyes up and down your figure, her brows furrowing ever so slightly. Almost wistfully, she comments, “You’ve grown.”

For as tender as her countenance seems, you’re not sure if she’s willing to spare you. But all the same, your fatigue is making itself horrendously apparent; you’re tired and want this to _end_. Yet a hidden glee pushes your forth in your dry antics.

“Y’know,” you begin, voice airy in its disinterest, “You should be nice to Plague Knight. It’s only because of him I was able to piece things together.” It was the truth, in a very roundabout manner. 

The Enchantress merely smirks, robe billowing around her in some unseen breeze. Her voice is notably less commanding as she replies in kind, “Then I suppose he’s played his part well enough.” As quickly as her expression became one of restrained joy does it fall away into subdued sorrow. Her eyes soften as she once again comments, “I never expected you to return after what you did to be rid of me.”

There is only the faintest shadow of joy at her words. You thought you’d be happier when you found your answers.

You glance down at the mask in your arms before flashes of the white place interrupt your vision. “...I mistakenly believed things would be easier.” You heave a sigh and push back the swelling guilt. “Perhaps I was just unlucky, but...people don’t change, not really.”

The Enchantress hums thoughtfully at your admission, but you take a shaky breath and continue. “And when I woke up _here_...” You release a humorless giggle. “I didn’t have a choice _but_ to try and fix the emptiness inside.”

 _Pinch this, fill that, drop here, discard there_.

It didn’t work back then.

 _Read this, explain that, help here, clean there_.

It didn’t even work with them.

“To be completely honest, nothing really changed,” you release another bout of stunted giggles. You adorn your lips with a smile and stare up at the Enchantress. “Besides, I’ve heard you’ve been busy taking over Pridemoor.”

You both know what you’re referring to, but the Enchantress humors you anyway.

“Our fate was a tragic one,” she begins solemnly, eyes gaining a listless appearance. “And after everything we endured—” Her eyes quickly sharpen as she offers you a humorless glare, “— _you ran away_ , leaving me behind as nothing more than _your discarded remnants_.”

Your eyes catch the gleam of the heavy magenta jewel resting upon the Enchantress’s brow.

The void wants to run again.

You’ve already made that choice once, and it only served to perpetuate this cycle of hurting others, of _being_ hurt. You refuse to repeat the same mistakes when you’ve openly admitted nothing’s come of it before. 

_You think you know pain_? The void hisses venomously through its sobs. _You are a fool._

It’s fine. This time it will be different.

“Like I said,” your voice is calm compared to the turbulent thoughts swirling inside your skull, of knowing that it has endured over a thousand years in which to change, of knowing _why_ things are the way they are now, of hoping it will allow you to end the very same cycle you began; “I’m here to fix that.”

The void falls quiet, but it’s despair is nearly tangible.

The Enchantress’s lips break out into a genuine smile once more; the body it parades around is a beautiful one, after all. Voice low and heartfelt, she comments, “I had believed you would never return; time warps us as land bends to the waters, and we are no different.” Resting a fond gaze on you, she continues on to reminisce, “Time is a treacherous teacher, but I am glad it has taught you the folly of your actions.”

Ever so faintly, you can hear the whisper of footfalls. And in the deepest recesses of your mind, they burn with a dull familiarity.

If the Enchantress notices, she says nothing. Instead, she continues to stare down at you with a love and reverence you cannot place on anyone else’s face when looking at you. It makes your heart ache, even more so as she goes on to say, “You know not the joy it brings me to see you before me. How you’ve grown enough to realize the foolishness of running from that which cannot be escaped.”

Something _snaps_ inside.

 _We will suffer because of your folly_ , the void wails. _You’ve damned us again_!

You smile despite yourself. It’s but a small price to pay compared to what you’ve already done.

 _At what cost_? The void weeps. _At what cost_...

A hollow impact rings about the external silence, your arms outstretched as if to embrace the remnant of fate left behind. Your mask rests at your feet besides your stagnant burst potion.

Your body creaks and moans like an ancient tree bending to the will of the winds, too old to carry the heavy burden life has forced upon it. You ignore the deep-rooted aches as you continue to smile up at the Enchantress, ignoring the wetness threatening to escape your eyes and the tightness of your throat. 

“I don’t want to be broken anymore,” you choke out.

The Enchantress smiles, a pleased and soft thing unlike the jagged pieces which make you both up.

“Very well,” she says, hope curling around her words like incense. Then, almost reproachfully, she comments, “I suppose this vessel has served her purpose well enough. However—”

She tilts her head up, the brilliant stone on her head flashing in tandem with the lightning strike outside. Her delicate hands reach for the jewel, sleeves and robes swelling against the dense atmosphere. You continue to look up, feeling so small beneath her loving stare. Just like back then with you and your microbes.

“—it is but an insignificant price to pay to return home.”

The stone cracks, then breaks.

A wave of bright, blinding light—

The barest glimpse of blue through the mistiness of your peripheral—

And then—

 _And then_ —

You remember.

 _No cost too great_.

**—**

They present themselves as a dream, but it feels more like a nightmare.

They come and go, as fleeting as the air in your lungs from one breath to the next. They are vivid images which ebb and flow, always returning to the current which birthed them. It’s a torrent of things trapped beneath the surface, pushing and pulling toward and from gravity’s unassailable grasp. Some float and some sink, but they always clash against the walls built to keep them at bay for fear of having them pull you down, too. They are a heavy burden, a series of weights which drag you down until there is no breath to follow the last.

The dam breaks and you are pulled under.

—a child frolics in the cobbled streets, curiosity pulling them along in exploring the colorful world outside the cold, uncaring walls of their home.

—the child sits in their bed, burning with a sickness which refuses to leave until their weakened body cannot properly contain the potential brimming inside.

—the child is forced to walk through long immaculate hallways alongside other adults, but there is no comfort to be found in the large hands gently wrapped around theirs.

—the child is older now, garbed in simple clothes as they watch the others dressed like them endure a series of tests which tax both their minds and bodies, sometimes until nothing is left.

The child thinks those ones are the luckiest.

—the child continues to suffer beneath the curious yet indifferent gazes of the scientists, and they slowly learn to hate the gift circulating beneath their skin and the clean, lifeless halls of their home.

—the child learns how to act during the various intermissions of their pain, dressed in the finest of silks and accented in spindles of gold as they pretend they are something more than a puppet for their people.

—the child witness the birth of a curse, the other specimens losing something so inherently vital they never recover after being reduced to fleshy dolls or living cadavers. 

The child thinks those ones are lucky, too.

—the heir grows, no longer a child as they repeat the seemingly endless cycle of bearing the weight of their gift during their waking hours and lying awake at night for fear of reliving their horrors in their dreams.

—the heir is corralled into a safe room when the people storm the palace and ravage the courts, searching for all the broken vessels lost to the science they were forced to perpetuate. 

—the heir can only watch as the fire, burning and bright, consumes all that remains of their family and court, a brilliant backdrop to the crowd standing before their crumpled form.

The heir wants to believe this is lucky.

But the screams and abrupt silences only add to their despair.

Nothing’s changed, not really.

—the heir pleads and cries but their voice falls upon deaf ears who instead return their own grievances, their own salvation as they clutch the swords they carry.

—the heir can only scream as dozens of blades continue to pierce through them, can only scream over the sounds of metal meeting flesh, can only scream when the suffering refuses to end.

—the heir can only latch on to the feeling swelling in tandem with the pain, brilliant and alight as it is during their experiments, as it struggles to keep their shredded body alive—

—it succeeds but it can’t stop the _pain pain PAIN PAIN_ PAIN—

—and they know, they _know_ now.

 _We will free you_.

More swords, more pain, more screams until there is no voice left to cry suffering.

They try so, so hard to end it all but the heir’s gift _refuses_ —

They want to go back to the times when they explored the colorful streets outside their home, to sharing carefree smiles with the people they were supposed to dedicate themselves to, to simply _live_. 

But.

Mistakes cannot be undone so easily.

—the hate for their gift, for their people, for everything builds and builds—

They realize they cannot go back to the carefree times, not with these people, not with the way things are. So they instead desire somewhere they can truly find a place to call home, where they won’t be easily hurt.

—until nothing is left.

They are so, so tired of being hurt.

But they want others to know what it’s like to hurt as much as them.

And then—

 _And then_ —

—they make a wish.

They want to leave this wretched land and never return; they want to go somewhere that would allow them to be in control for once; they want to return all the pain and agony they were forced to suffer through at the hands of their own people; they want nothing to do with the magic in their vessels which began this torment nor the memories plaguing their every waking moment.

Do you know what it would cost?

To spirit yourself away as nothing more than an empty husk?

—their latent hatred, their magic had latched on to every living person in that forsaken kingdom—

 _Do you know what it would cost_?

—and it _pulled_.

And then—

—they all coalesced into a pretty pink jewel, warm and heavy in their hands.

Their wounds had dispersed along with the people who inflicted them.

 _No cost too great_.

And then—

—your wish came true.

Small hands cradled the shimmering stone - _they deserved it_ \- and the scalding magic inside lit up, bright and lethal as the rage inside. It’s not a comforting presence now - _we’ll always be together_ \- nor has it been for a long, long time— _I’ll always protect you_. 

At what cost?

Mind in tatters - _where did the pain go_? - hands clutch the stone close as the magic resonates with the lingering wills and endless potential trapped inside it’s effervescent walls. Eyes widen in accordance to the brilliant flash of light - _where did the swords go_? - and the warmth emanating from it. Lips tug upwards and the shadow of a bubbly laugh pries itself from a dry, dead throat.

 _Where did the bodies go_?

And then—

 _I want to leave, too_.

—you committed the first enchantment.

You; me; _us_ —we were torn asunder.

It’s presence was severed - _it’s gone it’s gone it’s finally gone where are you going why are you LEAVING ME_ \- the moment the stone fell from your weak grasp. More laughs echoed about the chamber and it’s all you can recall - _it’s finally finally gone no more pain PLEASE DON’T LEAVE_ \- through the sheer ecstasy and abrupt fatigue as your vision cuts out.

Those damned pristine halls fall away into a comforting abyss, a faint pink glow invading the deepest recesses of your mind while your body begins to descend, like a corpse beneath the waves.

And then—

—a world, so bright and new, nearly blinds you with its promise to allow you to actually live for once, to have that control you’ve sought since you were able, to hurt and not be hurt.

—a tower, so cold and dead, keeps you locked away after you attach yourself to that forsaken jewel containing the remnants of your tormentors because where else would you go if you didn’t have a body, a vessel?

—you were garbed in a stainless white coat, holding various plastic instruments and the precious parcels contained within them, knowing but not understanding how they would wrack this world with grief.

—you lingered just as all their solidified potentials, existing but never knowing nor seeing beyond their confinement as you could, and you waited because that’s all you could do.

—time passes strangely in these brilliant, blindingly white halls—

—as it does in this prison of a palace’s corpse—

—you pretend the antiseptic scent does not cling to you after you leave that mechanical lab, after you step foot into the world which welcomed you with open arms and after you work to destroy its people.

—you wait and wait until a pair of men scavenge their way through the remains of your home, seeking to use your brimming power just as a pair of knights intervene in their foolish attempt.

—you are nothing more than another statistic to be tallied in this world, nothing more than another cog in the machine that is your laboratory, nothing more than another person pretending to be what they’re not.

—you are so, so happy because your wait is finally over, because these vessels have offered themselves so thoughtlessly, because you will finally be able to call your body back home.

 _And then_ —

—you meet Plague Knight and he takes you in and you work to fix the emptiness inside—

—you force that man into servitude as your Specter Knight and he aids your control over this new kingdom—

—you try so, so hard but nothing seems to work, and you cry because you have nothing to call your own—

—you try to locate your body but nothing seems to work, and you hurt because it’s all you’ve ever known—

—then, at the top of your tower, you finally, finally meet.

 _Do you matter? Do I matter? Do we matter? We_ are _matter._

Two missing pieces come together after time and space had separated them before.

The void flows and ebbs, pulling you under. It’s waters as as thick and viscous as the traits they mimic, heavy and unfailing in their attempts to drag you down into the depths of their despair. You know the dam you’ve built has been washed away alongside your care, so you pretend their blanketing darkness and incessant pressure are comforting. You also know only a fool would fight against a current which cannot be escaped, so you accept their will and fall deeper and deeper, so much until you cannot see the malice churning at the surface.

They present themselves as a dream, but it feels more like a nightmare.

Even so, you feel more alive than you ever have before.

**—**

Fire and water. Burning and blurring.

You blink, and the tears fall.

Eyes find themselves drawn to the small pinpricks of wetness captured in the silky fabrics adorning your lap. Those tiny specks are the only things marring the shimmering garments draped down your frame, heavy with the weight of their gold accents and frivolous jeweled accessories. But no matter how hard they try, the brilliant attire cannot hide the ugly thing hiding inside.

Your eyes trail to the numerous shards of stained glass scattered about, surface glossy and reflecting the crown upon your head and the past you wear. It’s been a very, very long time since you wore your royal garb. Why, now that you think of it, wasn’t the last time you wore these clothes during the siege of the palace? Weren’t these the same clothes wrapped around you when they discovered your hiding spot and proceeded to—?

A small smile. Oh, what a long time ago indeed.

But you had persevered through the ages - mere years? - and time has rewarded you handsomely. Unlike the pretty little shards nestled at your knees, you are no longer broken. Two halves of a whole: one a mere shadow of their former selves, thrust into a world where magic does not exist and the science they adore reigns as they once did; the other being the discarded remnants of the body’s gift and memories, binding themselves to the pink jewel likewise containing untold lingering wills. Two pieces of a puzzle reunite after being lost for so, so long.

You’re not broken any longer, so why do the tears continue to fall?

Eyes then find themselves drawn up, only to see two garish colors intruding upon the comforting obsidian walls of your tower. No; two knights who intrude upon your territory, one dressed in cerulean plates as he cradles the one adorning crimson armor. You knew these knights.

The familiar - familiar? - figure of Shovel Knight brings an odd mix of subdued happiness, callous indifference and intricate rage to the surface of your psyche. You’re glad - glad? - the man is unscathed after Plague Knight stole his essence, but—how _dare_ he come to your tower and sully it with his frivolous heroics? Heroes don’t _exist_ ; how _dare_ he pretend to be better than _what he is_.

And then _her_ ; she yet lives after you threw her essence away? A tenacious thing who mirrors the blue one in their futile vision of playing _knights_ when the only monsters to slay are the very things they _are_. You had known - known? - he would come for her like an acolyte to their god; you had heard tales of the cerulean knight wielding a shovel challenging and _besting your_ —knights of the Order. If she had perished as you intended— _hahahaaa_ , how much would he have hurt…?

If his one and only died right in front of him, to _see_ how futile it is to _hope_...what then? Would he have used that fancy shovel of his to bury his beloved? _Haha_.

But he keeps her close, whispering reverently as he proclaims he fulfilled his self-inflicted promise. You cannot peer into the inky abyss peeking from his helmet - you never could - but you can see the wilted, tired albeit sincere smile playing across her lips. She looks up at him, expression soft and pained _as it should be_ ; you gave away every last fragment of her potential, so why does she still draw breath?

More words are spoken between the pair but you cannot fathom what foolish drivel they spout, most likely to build up their weakened wills. _Hahaha_ , those who brave your tower never really _leave_ , do they? 

Then her gaze passes over to your crumpled form. But—

It shifts.

“I…” Her warm eyes soften and briefly close as her frame is wracked with a harsh fit of coughs. Shovel Knight silently frets over her but she pays him no heed, instead meeting your wet eyes once more. “...you’re the one it’s been calling for.”

 _Don’t look at me_.

She shifts in her partner’s arms. Brow furrowed, she continues, “If it weren’t for my presence on that day—” Here the blue one immediately disagrees but her voice buries his, “—you…you would not have been brought back...I—” Another cough, another gasp for breath.

Pity. You see an open pity aimed at you and—

Her eyes are heavy and fail to disguise the sorrow.

“Forgive me.”

 _She knows_.

Your smile falters then falls into stoic indifference, then rage. _How dare she mock you_?

Something bursts into being inside your chest, brilliant and lethal as the scalding hatred flowing freely throughout your body. It continues to burn away what shadows of pain linger, forcefully sealing the wounds you sustained when the reaper—your servant dared challenge you when you were but a weak mortal. It burns away the unfamiliarity as it reclaims its home inside you, building and building until it begs to be released.

Whatever tears were left are quickly lost to the searing flames erupting from your hands. Even as they climb and rage at the open air, they offer nothing more than a gentle caress of warmth against your exposed flesh. They flicker as her face is no longer staring at you with pity but now watching the swath of flames fretfully.

 _How great it is to be in control_.

You rear your arms back and relish the fear so plainly displayed on her wretched face. Allowing a - manic - grin to grace your lips, you lash out and the brilliant flames coalesce into a griseous orb of raw energy. In an instant, they speed toward the prone woman and her partner.

There’s little hesitation when she immediately readies her massive shield in response, it’s bulk easily blocking your magic from even licking them with its power. Your smile briefly falters before it grows along with the fire in your grasp.

Thrust after thrust, you fling your magic at the woman with the small hope it will eventually wear away her protective shield. It fails to do so, but you cannot stop allowing your magic to run its course through your vessels and express its destructive capabilities; how could you when it feels so _good_? So _right_?

A thought strikes you. Wouldn’t it be more entertaining if you drew out their imminent death? Surely they deserve an end fitting for a knight, and reacquainting yourself with your magic would prove useful in time.

You lower your arms and instead pry yourself from gravity's hold, softly propelling yourself skyward as your magic continues to sing through your veins. Even if your magic was the strongest in all of your kingdom’s reign and perhaps this sorry excuse for a successor, it had also gifted you all the untapped potential left over from the philosopher’s stone. To think you had denied yourself all this power...how utterly foolish.

A gleeful laugh pierces the air as you watch the pair of knights struggle to right themselves. No sooner do they pry themselves to their armor-clad feet do you rekindle your magic, bright and lethal in your palms. You flick your hands down and unleash your pent up energy, a triage of destructive bursts raining down upon the pair. They scatter about like bugs, she with her massive shield and he with his skilled maneuvers. It is no matter; you will crush them like the insects they are.

No sooner do the bursts of malignant magic ignite on the obsidian floor does the woman cry out. “Please,” she begins, voice hoarse in its volume, “This isn’t necessary!”

Her pleas fall of deaf ears—just like back then with _them_ and the glittering points of their swords.

You brush away the slightest sliver of guilt at the unbidden comparison and continue to wreath the room in your magic. More brilliant flames are summoned, more scatter about in their attempt to harm the other occupants of your tower, yet more still continue to fan from your hands and caress the various jewels of your attire. It’s only when the latest wave of your fire perishing to the chilled air do you realize the smile has long since left your lips.

In the lull of you summoning more flames, the woman cries out again. “You need not do this!” Although she clearly wilts under the newest barrage of fire, her voice does not waver when she continues, “While I cannot truly fathom your pain, I can promise you this is no way to behold it!”

Your response is a sharp hiss and a blanket of fire. The pink magic washes over her, drowning out her pathetic attempts at diplomacy and trading them for pained gasps. The blue-clad knight immediately cries out for his partner before rushing to her side.

Neither her shortened breaths or his plaintive concern bring you joy.

Growling, you flit across the room and wait for them to readjust themselves to the heat of battle. Those who do not even attempt to fight back are the worst; either they believe you to be of little threat or they hold none of their instincts to live. And if there’s anything you can say, it’s that to live is to _hurt_.

The cerulean knight’s helmet turns until its front is staring directly up at you. His deep voice rings out in the silence, deafening in its softness. “I do not fully understand what is going on,” he begins, voice oddly stagnant, “But I know enough to realize you are not beyond help.”

A rattling cough disrupts the words, and you can only watch as the scarlet-clad woman eases back onto her feet. Leaning against her large shield as support, her warm - _pitying_ \- eyes scan over your form once more. Words soft and pained but eyes blazing with sincerity, she wheezes out, “There is still time to undo what has been wronged.”

The blue knight returns his attention to her briefly before once again speaking into the atmosphere. Slowly turning back to meet your glare, he continues, “If my partner believes you are still deserving of our aid, then not all hope is lost. This does not have to end in needless violence.”

Your jaw aches with how tight is clenches, just as your fingernails dig into your palm. Your narrowed eyes search their own expressions - one unabashed and open, the other concealed but present in body - and find nothing but sincerity. It makes your gut churn. _How dare they hope when it never existed_?

Your eyes flicker over the millions of sparkles dancing across the floor in the limited light from your empty windows. They are an assortment of colors, jagged and oh so sharp.

As if guided by invisible threads, they lift from the ground and hover menacingly in the air.

The cerulean knight’s posture grows more tense as does his companion’s. His voice rings out yet again, but the words make you seethe even more at their foolishness. “Friend, this isn’t—”

You fling the shards of glass at their still forms without remorse. You can only watch in dazed amusement as they dance around the floor, attempting to dodge and weave through the shower of points. Something catches in your throat when they grunt in pain as some of your makeshift projectiles hit their mark through the sheets of armor. Likewise, something begins to gnaw away at your insides the more they dance before you, completely at utterly at your mercy.

Once all the glass has either been pulverized into a fine dust by their attempts to ward them off or through your shaky aim, the pair looks up at you with a new fire burning into your form. You return their intrusive expressions with your own scowl. 

“You know _nothing_ ,” you spit, bitter and hot as they were when you spoke them to the reaper.

To make your point abundantly clear, you forcefully shut the only door leading to the lower floors. The resounding sound of obnoxious grinding and then stone hitting stone echo faintly in your chamber. 

No more words are exchanged as you conjure more flames. They ready their weapons in tandem.

The resulting battle is a glorious one, filled with abrupt motions and a frantic pace only a dance to the death could provide. The pain of the woman’s shield bouncing around the walls before slamming into your ribs is dulled beneath the waves of exhilaration racing up your spine. The pain of the blue one’s spade blindsighting and consequently ramming into the side of your face is also drowned out beneath the adrenaline singing through your vessels. 

The pair are truly a threat, but even they cannot withstand the damage from your magic. Familiar magenta flames crash over the arena of your tower, washing the knights beneath its lustrous, malignant swaths. Their stunted cries of pain are barely heard over the sounds of their clanking armor or the heartbeat pounding between your ears. There’s more fire, more pain from both you and them.

A dull sense of familiarity ignites your vision into the visage once again. You had wanting nothing more than to give them a taste of their own medicine, and even if your magic had already stripped them away into nothingness, you knew people never changed; not really. No matter where you were or what became of you, the people - even _you_ \- it was either hurt or be hurt. 

Even now it’s no different.

A lull in the battle; an opportunity presents itself and you take it. Your magic spans out throughout your territory, throughout your tower, throughout your _home_ and it latches onto those vestiges left behind. It secure their handles and it _pulls_.

You splay your hands out and feel the strain dissipate as countless swords are conjured to your side. Their blades shed what rust littered them with the heat of your flames, now gleaming brilliant and bright. They float in the air, still and silent as sentinels, awaiting your command. 

The barest hint of fear enters the scarlet knight’s eyes, but she lifts her shield unyieldingly. Her partner’s pauldrons tense alongside his shoulders, spade held before him protectively.

You fling the weapons at their prone forms. 

They weave and duck to avoid the silver points as the swords embed themselves into the stoney floor. But even they cannot escape the onslaught without harm, and even now you can see the flicks of crimson staining the blue one’s armor and the cuts littering her face, leaking the same hue. 

Those blades which miss their mark are conjured to the open air as you continue to fling them down at the dancing figures below, too occupied with their dodging to even attempt to hit you. Still, you float around the room when their heaving bodies come too close for comfort. 

There are sounds of steel hitting steel, but there are no sounds of steel piercing flesh or steel rebounding off bone. For that you are thankful.

Yet another lull presents itself, your aim now miserable compared to the beginning of your attack. Nary a single blade now comes close to even scraping against their colorful armor, instead flinging themselves down into the bricked floor. They do not puncture the obsidian stone as before, instead flicking off its surface with the muted sound of sparks and laying benign after your control fails. Your shoulders ache from the repeating motions of flinging the weapons.

“ _Please_ , halt your actions!” 

You attempt to gaze down at her cry, only to see her blurred silhouette of crimson and gold. Something burning sears a path down your cheeks and— _oh_. You—you’re...the mistiness is gone, now.

Your wet gaze flickers back to her now clearer visage. Her warm eyes are narrowed in concern yet again - why? _Why_? - as she holds a hand out to stop her partner. She takes an unsteady step forward, holding herself up with her shield and force of will. 

Hunched and weak, her voice betrays none of that when she continues softly, “ _Please_ ; I know you’re better than this.” Her lips tilt upward into a tired smile. “Only you have the power to stop _this_.”

Her arm gestures to her immediate surroundings: innumerous swords lay scattered about as the shards of your stained windows were, some broken and other misshapen, and many marred with the slightest hint of red attached to their blades. The same flicks of red decorating both her open face and the cerulean knight’s armor. 

You glance back at her tired eyes and wry smile and—

 _Then make a name for yourself_.

It shifts and all you can see are minty skin, obsidian hair and a familiar smile tugging at her lips.

“ _SHUT UP_!” You hear yourself roar, conjuring a handful of swords to your side before flinging them at the two knights.

You know it’s a stupid move, and the subtle fear tainting the woman’s wide eyes still fails to bring even the barest hint of joy. Instead your vision clouds over with more mistiness, more burning. 

You can barely see the pair dodge your volley, jumping to the side to avoid being skewered. The sounds of steel hitting stone rebound harshly in the chamber and through the heartbeat in your head. Your throat is tight and it feels like you’re drowning.

 _CRACK_.

Something sharp breaks through the surface of whatever is pulling you under.

Everything seems to slow down. Your eyes find themselves drawn to the source of the sound, and it’s not until the newest wave of tears is shed until you finally _see_.

A familiar pear-shaped bottle lies broken in a pool of green, stagnant and dull.

A sword rests a few feet away, a familiar green staining its otherwise shining tip.

Something inside _breaks_.

The words caught in your throat cannot escape their prision, too tight in its panic and fear to unleash the sobs of _no no NO NO_ NO. Instead more tears well and burn away your vision until you cannot make out the misshapen bottle nor the missing shards resting besides it.

You do not see the crimson knight lift up her massive shield, you do not see the cerulean knight leap off its glossy surface, you do not see him propel himself skyward, you do not see him rear his arms back to strike you with his spade. But you feel the impact, as dull as it might be, through the haze of your own pain.

You allow yourself to fall back down to the ground, crashing into the unforgiving stones of obsidian below. The tears leave familiar trails down your cheeks, scalding and burning against the cool air of the room, but more soon take their place. You cannot hear anything save for the heartbeat, slow and broken, between your ears.

You attempt to stand only to fall beneath the weight seemingly pinning you down. So you crawl, dragging yourself over to the shards of glass and the tiny pool of green solution they rest in. They are blurry, smeared within the viscous liquid trapped in your eyes, but you can still make out their fuzzy forms and the sight continues to hold you down. 

A stunted sob finally wretches itself from your throat, deafening in the silence it disrupts.

The faintest whispers of words catch in your ears, but they are drowned in comparison to the chorus of laughs you shared with—

“— alright there, friend…?” The cerulean knight speaks above those memories.

Your vision shifts again and all you can see are pale skin, sleek raven hair and emerald eyes glinting in mischief.

The familiar warmth of your magic continues to work in the background, fixing all your injuries as your mind is elsewhere. The sensation is painfully reminiscent of those whirring, spinning machines back in that lab, doing all the work while you sit in idleness for them to complete their tasks.

Again, your vision shifts and all you can see are brilliant viridian scales, crinkled red eyes and a smiling, jagged maw.

Your eyes pry themselves away from the remains of your— _their_ burst potion. Instead, they shift their gaze to the sword laying a few feet away, plain silver blade and golden hilt innocuous save for the green tarnishing it. While it was the messenger, it was _you_ who had—

A hidden sob reverberates painfully between your ribs.

People don’t change, not really.

In that world with the impossibly tall skyscrapers and the majesty of science and all its gifts, it wasn’t different. You had resided in the dead, white halls of a laboratory and worked to hurt others through the use of repetitive technology and microbial miracles.

It was easier back then because you never really saw what you did.

In this world with the elegant spires which reach to touch the stars and the ethereal capabilities of magic, it wasn’t different. You had made something so awful you tore yourself apart to escape it, and even then what you left continued to hurt others because that’s all you knew. 

It was easier back then because you didn’t have the capacity to feel.

Something masquerading as a laugh bubbles up but soon shrivels and dies behind your broken heart. Your eyes do not leave the stained blade of the sword; how utterly ironic. It seems it’s true, the thought people never change. You either participate in the cycle or you perpetuate it. And look where you are now.

You instead shake your head slowly, because it’s all you can do.

After a moment or two, you finally pry your eyes away from the sword and redirect your gaze to the familiar magenta mask also sitting alongside your broken potion. Ever so slowly you shift, reach out for it before holding its weight against your chest. None of your previous actions nor the knights’ have touched it, still whole yet worn as it was when you discarded it. 

Hugging the plague doctor mask to yourself, you murmur a nearly silent, “I’m sorry.”

“Friend,” her voice pipes up uncertainly behind you, and the word resonates within you so much it _hurts_. “Are...are you quite alright now?”

Your fingers run over the stitching of your mask, mind running around the thoughts of the betrayal you are committing to the tentativeness of her quiet voice. It’s nearly too much to bear but you manage to stay afloat, answering her call with a muted sigh. 

Without turning around to properly see her, your voice rings out in the silence. Unsure and unsteady, you manage to choke out, “...I don’t believe I know your title, kind knight.”

Her voice is notably higher yet still cautious as she replies, “I am known as Shield Knight.”

You heave a stunted chuckle, shoulders shaking minutely as you clutch your mask close. “...It suits you.”

The sound of steel clanking against steel, then his voice rings out. “And I am Shovel Knight, at your service.”

Another muted laugh echoes about the chamber. You still do not turn as you reply not unkindly, “I know. We’ve met, once.” You do not elaborate and he does not ask, but the mask in your grasp tells everything.

Calming enough so the tears do not continue to impair your vision, you idly wipe your cheeks. Voice stronger but still weak in its volume, you muster what little courage you still have and say, “I’m sorry.”

It echoes until Shield Knight calmly responds, “It is no trouble, friend.”

All things have a beginning and an end. If not because of their mistakes, most things will eventually perish to the uncaring nature of time. Things change, and things die.

“...If I may be so bold,” you begin, tone tired but pleading, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Cycles are no different. They have a beginning and an end. 

The knights do no immediately reply. It takes an unseen exchange between them before you hear more clinking armor and Shovel Knight’s voice. “If you require our aid, then so it shall be.”

You are no different. 

You try and fail to stutter out another laugh, but instead it falls from your lips as a choked sob. Ever so slowly, reverently apologizing to Plague Knight over and over again internally, your trembling fingers lift your mask. Before you can place it over your face once again, your eyes gaze off to empty windows. Instead of the storm of green clouds and rainfall, your eyes are met with the serene spectacle of the night sky, stars twinkling innocently.

Still you are unable to turn around and meet their gazes, too afraid of what you might find in her warm eyes. They do not realize what they have agreed to, but it does not matter. Instead you simply repeat, “I’m sorry,” because it’s all you have left.

You know how this will end.

They are both righteous and kind; perhaps too much. You may be taking advantage of their compassion, but you know there’s nothing you can do otherwise. If anything, they are both what you believe every knight should aspire to be: unyielding yet understanding, protecting those who cannot protect themselves. 

You slip on the mask with unsteady fingers, its familiarity offering some comfort. At your will, your magic once again reignites and flares to life around you. It sears away those garish vestments and instead conjures a similar set of robes, comparable to those you wore as a minion save for being the same colors of the night sky.

It is only when the familiar garb cloaks your body and hides your face when you turn around and meet their stares. Hers holds the faintest look of betrayal and his remains dipped in the inky shadows of his visor. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, voice subdued and tired. With the faintest hop you pry yourself from gravity’s grasp again, floating up into the open air. You conjure a multitude of the swords scattered throughout the room back to your side, hovering as you are with their blades pointed at the pair of knights below.

“Truly, I am,” you continue, voice still tight from the despair sitting within your chest. You watch as both knights ready themselves for another battle, and it both chills you to the core and warms your heart. Yet they do not move, even as their stances do not falter. 

To think this was all because you sought control even when you could not control your own magic...

A smile attempts to form but fails to do so. To think these knights actually cared enough to hear you out, especially after everything you’ve done...You can at least ease the pain of your betrayal by explaining. Your words are heavy with the regret and sorrow you could never escape from.

“My magic is strong; too strong. It will not allow me to die.” Your robes begin to billow in some unseen wind, but you cannot feel anything save for the weight of your next words.

You will break this cycle.

“ _Kill me, or I shall kill you_!”

As the last remnants of your furious voice echoes around the chamber, you rear back and fling your swords at the two knights as you did before. They scramble to dodge the volley, Shield Knight summoning some unseen strength as she leaps up and thrusts her largest shield out, protecting Shovel Knight below her. All that can be heard is the harsh shrieking of metal against metal.

Your available swords diminish until the last one strikes against her barrier, flung away to some dark corner of the room. Quickly, the two knights run toward you before she once again lifts off and holds her shield aloft, Shovel Knight shortly pouncing from her temporary platform toward you. His spade is held at the ready and you know you can conjure yourself away from the incoming blow, but you don’t. 

A fiery pain laces throughout your torso when it’s sharpened tip slices through your robes and into your ribs. 

Against your will, your magic patches up the wound and the torn fabric of your robes until only the warmth of what blood escaped remains. It’s not enough, but these two are strong and you have little doubt they will succeed.

“Stop this madness!” Shield Knight cries out below. You cast your unseen gaze toward her and the pained look in her eyes - she’s not hurting, so why…? - forces you to float further from her until you can barely see it. Even so, her powerful voice reaches across the space as she yells, “We can help you, so please, _stop this_!”

You don’t have the courage to tell her that this isn’t about whether or not you—your mental state can be salvaged. It’s not about that; it was never about that. 

You answer her plea by summoning a slew of transmutation circles beneath their feet. Thrusting your hands up, the obsidian bricks below them - made of one of the most brittle yet sharpest stone - are forcefully transformed into wicked spikes which lance up with blinding speed.

Shield Knight fails to see the attack, and one of the spires knocks her to the ground with a fresh splash of blood. Likely dizzy from her hard impact and idly cradling her arm, she does not move even as you force yourself to summon another circle beneath her prone form.

It takes an immense amount of magic to summon a transmutation circle from nothing, but the sooner you run out of magic the faster this can all _end_.

Shovel Knight, who successfully avoided your transmutations, propels himself to his fallen companion. He hurriedly shoves her from the the circle’s harmful circumference and a second later it comes to life in a flash of light, but the resulting obsidian spike hits only air.

The familiar dance of battle thrums through your veins like the magic conjuring more transmutation circles and healing any wounds the knights inflict. The two are incessant in their cries for you to stop, but their pleas fall on deaf ears; you know they will only continue to fight if they are in turn threatened. So you fight, summoning more spikes beneath their feet or hurling the various swords at them. Perhaps it is fruitless, but you hope they have the strength to persevere and destroy this unruly magic and its vessel.

A heavy shield flies through the air and knocks the air from your lungs, and the sharp pain wracking your chest indicates a few crushed ribs. But the pain does not linger, your magic already mending the broken bones.

A sharp shovel is swung at your head but misses its mark, instead smashing into the tender flesh of your throat. The taste of iron on the back of your tongue and the distinct numbness of your body indicate your neck was broken, but before long all sensations return alongside the warmth of your magic.

Shield Knight struggles to stand upright, instead relegating herself to provide her shield as a makeshift platform for her companion instead of flinging it around.

Shovel Knight fares better, but even he is beginning to tire after being forced to dodge vollies of swords and relentless spikes from impaling him through and through.

There’s more pain, more bloodshed, more violence.

Between the sensations of shame, guilt, and despair flitting into and from your focus, your memories return to the surface. In those rare intervals, the pain you feel is paramount to that gifted to you by shovel or shield.

You see yourself trailing behind a small, errant man dressed to mimic a plague doctor.

Another shriek of metal before it imbeds itself in your side.

You see yourself sitting on a bed besides a boy with striking green eyes as you share laughter over your meal.

The sound of metal hitting metal, floating swords halting the blow before it can land.

You see yourself crawling on the ground, looking up at a man wreathed in scarlet and holding a scythe.

A grunt of exertion before a familiar pain blooms in your ribs.

You see yourself standing around a workbench, book open as you help a tall, stoic woman and the small man.

Spires of stone erupt from the ground, blocking yet another strike to your torso.

You see yourself lying prone on the ground, a dragon with brilliant scales protecting you from a black knight.

The spade hits its mark, and your vision clouds over with black spots. The pain lingers.

You see yourself cowering before a crowd whose visages are blurred unlike the swords they carry.

Another swing, another impact forces the air from your lungs. The pain remains.

You see yourself tense before two familiar figures make themselves apparent in their desire to help you.

The deep aches do not go away, and in their presence you fail to dodge another strike. You’re growing tired.

You see yourself throw your spent body at the reaper, a blinding explosion igniting the both of you.

The knight leaps up and, too tired to care, you allow his shovel to slam into your skull. It hurts.

You see yourself limp toward the plague doctor and the ethereal woman floating above him.

The visions come and go, presenting themselves as a dream. You do not even attempt to escape the current they carry, instead allowing them to wash over you. It still feels like you’re drowning, throat tight and eyes stinging and misty, but it’s not as terrible a thing to behold as one might believe. It’s...nice; a respite from everything.

Something wet and warm drops down your cheeks, but your vision soon clouds over with their replacements. 

To think you were lucky enough to have people who cared, even if it was for a short while... 

Dizzy and teetering in your flight, you summon what little energy remains and force the birth of dozens of transmutation circles. The flashing light they give interrupts the darkness of the room as your magic struggles to pull the obsidian bricks into the wicked spires. They rearrange themselves into their new shapes, erupting from the ground with such force the grinding sounds boom throughout the chamber, and the knights struggle to escape their path. 

It is then the room begins to shake, at first a quiet trembling before it soon crescendos into a violent rumbling. The quaking rends obsidian bricks from the ceiling and floor, falling either to crash into what remains of the ground or disappearing into the abyss below. It continues, sabotaging some of your transmutation circles and disrupting the formation of your spikes. Some break so utterly nothing is left and more fall apart until a gaping hole is left where they once were.

Between the flashes of pain you can faintly sense the release of an amalgamation of potentials, not unlike those contained within your stone. A tired smile plays across your lips. Looks like Plague Knight succeeded in his quest for the ultimate potion.

Still, the newfound destruction fails to stall either your weakened attacks or the knights defensive counters. 

Shield Knight bounds from the crumbling circle’s influence, her tired eyes darting around the room from your floating form to the cerulean knight below you. Above the rumbling of your transmutations, loud and commanding her voice bellows, “ _Shovel Knight_!”

Her partner does not grace her words with a verbal response, but through the trembling wracking the room and the blurriness of your vision you can see his helmet dip in understanding.

With your magic solely occupied with maintaining what active arrays remain, you cannot do anything save for quickening their completion. More obsidian spires spike forth from the crumbling floor, but both knights still evade their lethal points and meet in the center of the room—beneath you.

More tears fall and gather inside your mask, slow and sluggish as everything appears to be.

With a mighty cry, Shield Knight leaps up into the air, holding her massive shield aloft. Shovel Knight soon bounds up alongside her, jumping onto and from her makeshift platform. 

Silent and unyielding, he readies his spade and you can do nothing to protect yourself. Even as he closes the distance between you, you still cannot see what expression he wears through the inky shadows of his helmet. It’s fair, given he cannot see your face concealed beneath your mask.

There is no restraint when he quickly lashes out, swiping your face so hard until you can see nothing but flashes of white and taste nothing but iron. Faintly, you can feel a subtle breeze caress against your cheeks and dry the tears trailing down them, yet you cannot hear anything but the muted sound of your slow heartbeat. 

Eyes misty with fresh tears, you can only make out the familiar shadowy corners of your tower and the gleaming cerulean blur at the center of it all. 

And then—

—a high-pitched whistle breaks through the lull.

It’s familiar.

_I’m so, so sorry, everyone. Styx, Draak, Mona; even you, Plague Knight…I’m sorry I can never return to you._

Shovel Knight descends upon his spade and you can only watch as it punctures the center of your chest.

 _No cost too great_.

Oddly enough, you can barely feel it.

Even as close as the two of you are, you still can’t see anything but the same shadows concealing the knight’s face as he looks down at you. You return his stare through the haze of tears caught in your eyes. You continue to plummet to the broken ground below, vision filled with the visage of Shovel Knight and the remains of your home crumbling around you.

It still feels like you’re trapped beneath turbulent waters, every sensation distorted and quiet, even as you crash into the unforgiving stones below. You still feel nothing save for the faintest reverberation echoing throughout your body at impact and the slightest pressure of the spade running you through.

You blink and the mistiness dissipates.

Shovel Knight releases his trembling grip from his spade, stumbling back and into Shield Knight. Although you cannot see what lies beneath his visor, you can clearly make out the horror plainly displayed on her face. Her warm eyes dart around in their sockets, from the weapon pinning you to the ground to your face and—oh. Your mask; it’s gone.

You muster a smile through you fatigue.

“I…” Shield Knight begins, voice soft and broken. Even if you struggle to understand the words she speaks through the haze encompassing your mind and the sounds of the room falling apart, you focus your tired stare on hers. Her eyes gain a glossy sheen when she continues, “There was no need, so...why…?”

What can you say with what little time you have left? That you’re a fool and a coward who was too afraid to live with the consequences of your actions? That you’re so, so tired of living a repetitive life as nothing more than a prop to someone else’s existence? That you couldn’t bear to face your friends after everything you’ve done?

You attempt to chuckle but instead release a gurgling choke.

Something warm and wet spills from your lips, but you pay no heed when you rasp out, “Better this than another Enchantress.”

Even now, bleeding out and struggling for breath, you still want to run away. Fitting that this outcome is just another way to run. At least with this you’ve closed the cycle you began in the first place. 

More tears slip out, burning against the cool air of the tower. Your breathing turns sporadic and you gasp on a breath, chest trembling much like the foundation you rest upon. From your peripheral, more heavy bricks fall and impact the floor with minor tremors, but you cannot tear your eyes away from the two brilliant knights before you.

If anything, you’re glad they proved you wrong. Maybe people aren’t always so bad.

Even so, you still care; you’ve always cared.

Hoping for once in your life your smile reaches your eyes, you grin up at them. “I’m sorry.”

Shield Knight simply shakes her head, brows furrowing until something glistening drips down her cheek. It’s faint but present, and the sight makes you feel even more guilty. Then again, you deserve to feel nothing more than shame for everything you’ve done. So you swallow a repeat of your paltry apology and remove your eyes from her face to stare up at the collapsing ceiling above.

Fitting that this place— _your_ place, your _home_ be your tomb.

You want to tell them to leave and never return, but your voice fails you and you cannot gather the breath to do so anyway. Soon enough your vision begins to swim in and out of focus until you cannot make out the two silhouettes of crimson and cerulean peeking into your peripheral.

Everything seems to quiet down once again, even the soft beats of your heart between your ears. You cannot feel the reverberations of the floor crumbling beneath you, nor the tremors of the falling debris, nor your own body and the shovel buried inside it like a demented grave marker.

In the lull you watch as the two smears of red and blue remain by your side, even as another of black enters. Hushed sounds no more than a whisper enter your mind and they, too depart alongside their owners. You cannot see even the faintest remnant of red, blue or black in your bleary peripheral. All that remains are the familiar violet hues of the obsidian and gleaming cerulean of the spade caught in your chest.

You hope those knights escape, and you hope Plague Knight is long gone.

Through the fatigue washing over you and pulling you beneath its weight, you begin to succumb to its promise and release a long, steady breath. The gentle thrums between your ears slow and the inky dots invading your vision grow until you aren’t sure if they’ve overtaken your sight or you’ve closed your eyes.

Even so, in that last glimpse, you’d recognize that crimson hood and golden visor anywhere.

You still smile, even if you cannot see the obsidian bricks descending to bury you beneath their weight.

And then—

...

—you sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> I want to say a few things, the first of which is _thank you_ to those who've stuck with me throughout this whole thing from start to finish, and even those of you who enjoyed even a fragment of this; you make writing worth it, even if I wrote this entirely for myself in the beginning. So thanks for enjoying, and for all your kind words.
> 
> Secondly, and I want to make this abundantly clear: I wrote this entire story out of _spite_. Like, I love _Shovel Knight_ and its multiple campaigns, but there's little to no backstory on what exactly that amulet in the Tower of Fate _is_ or _why_ it was inherently evil. I get _Shovel Knight_ is supposed to be a love-letter to retro classics (and it sure is!), even with its simplistic plot, but damn is there a bunch of interesting stuff left untold! So I thought to myself, "Hey, maybe I can write something to explain away these things in a super self-indulgent manner because why the fuck not?" And here we are.
> 
> Lastly, I know this ending might have come out of left field for some of you, but I've been foreshadowing this since day one. If there's one literary device I love, it's foreshadowing, and _damn it_ if I don't abuse it (maybe the title makes more sense now? _Haha_ ). Rest assured this isn't a ploy to get you to read this tedious story again, but I guess I just wanna say _this_ chapter was the entire reason I wanted to finish this endeavor in the first place. Maybe it was unnecessarily dramatic, but it's something I enjoy and, when I post it, it's something I hope some of you may enjoy too.
> 
> (I also bet none of you were expecting this to turn into an amalgamation of _Fullmetal Alchemist_ , _Utena_ , _Hollow Knight_ and _Cave Story_ , but hey! Like it's advertised, this is just an AU.)
> 
> I guess I wanna conclude this gargantuan end-note by once again reiterating my thanks; really, I honestly don't think I would've been able to finish this without your comments! Between my episodes of hyper-fixation, this story was often pushed to the side as my attention was pulled elsewhere, but your words never failed to reignite my passion for this! So a big round of applause to you guys! Thank you so, _so_ much!!
> 
> Also, let me know if you guys want an epilogue. Honestly, I'm partial to the idea but be warned I haven't written a single word for it. If I decide to write it, I'll post it whenever it's finished; no once-a-week-updates. And it probably won't be as long as this 14,000+ word chapter, so...yeah. Sorry about that.
> 
> Again, thank you for everything!
> 
>  **EDIT:** Hello again; I just wanna say that I _am_ going to write a (probably) short epilogue for this! Don't know when it'll be done, but if you're interested please bear with me. Other than that, _YES_ , you can draw fanart!! I'd love to see it, and I hope you'll enjoy my own art that I'll post in the epilogue (if I figure out all the coding shenanigans; I'm not the best)! 
> 
> With that, see you next time!


	16. The End

Time doesn’t heal wounds.

**—**

He trailed his fingers over the worn green cover, over the faded gold ink and the tattered spine. A sigh wretches itself from his throat, soft and small. Even after all this time, he could not read the strange letters adorning the wisened book’s front. But he is resilient, and in between the periods of grief and resignation he cradles it close because it’s all he has left.

Styx may have forsaken his noble lineage to dabble in a controversial art, but he has not lost that same studious outlook gained during his younger days.

He looks back on those times without fondness nor malice; they simply provided him the means to become who he is today. If anything, he is thankful for the countless tutors and hours spent memorizing the history of the land or learning the various sciences and its facets. Perhaps others may have believed him to be a servant to his own lineage, but he was glad for all the schooling; how could he not be when it opened up the world to him?

Sure, he may not have had the opportunity to fully immerse himself as the common folk could, but it was the closest he could get without outright escaping his family’s grounds. And while he may have been disallowed from leaving the mansion - to prevent the commons from ‘sullying his teachings’ - he was certainly not above sneaking around such limitations to observe the workings of the outside world.

So he lived a lavish life, switching between learning how to conduct himself as a member of high society and preparing for what is expected of him later in life. Choice was as foreign a concept to him as the common folk, but he was no idiot; if there was one thing he learned during his rebellious excursions it was that there was a sort of cycle at play: the fit prey upon the unfit.

He had spent many a day in the ground’s gardens, not only because it was as relaxing a place as any during what little free time he was alloted, but because it was the closest he could get to being free. From a perch between the stone walls circling his family’s home he could see how the common folk suffered. He could listen to their talk and hear of a blight taking their children, or of what little food was gathered during the last harvest, even how the newest taxes force many a family into poverty.

When compared to the opulent parties held in the central foyer of the mansion, it was a painfully obvious something was amiss. Bringing his worries to his private tutors only rewarded his concern with commands to ignore the commons or to thank his family for sheltering him from such misery.

But he knew there was more than sorrow to be found outside his family’s estate. He saw how the common folk could approach one another so freely and with little restraint, how they wouldn’t hesitate to lend a helping hand if the need arose. There was a distinct warmth in such open displays of cooperation, and upon further inspection such warmth did not exist within the confines of his home.

It was only years after his observations did he truly realize how utterly corrupt society is. Those who held a large fortune were those who also held the most power, and those who lacked such materialistic worth were at their mercy. Therefore the fit preyed upon the unfit.

He was painfully aware where he stood in that cycle.

Knowing his concerns - his choice to have such concerns - would be brushed aside by everyone he knew, he continued to harbor a keen disregard for his nobility. Being gifted with all the knowledge and prestigious schooling of his childhood, he used it in his personal quest to end this cycle of suffering. Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to not realize his goal would also uproot his own comfortability, but it’s a small price to pay for having basic decency and compassion.

So he continued to act as an heir as himself should, all the while scheming against his family and their personal entourage of greedy interlopers. Years of conditioning and learning to wield a tongue dipped in silver proved fruitful in his attempt to limit their awareness of his growing contempt. So he dabbled in the massive archives in his home, hoping to find something; anything that would help him dismantle this corruption.

It was then he discovered alchemy, an art straddling the boundary between magic and science. When he came to learn it’s most basic rule was that of equivalent exchange - a fair trade where corruption could not flourish - he was instantly smitten.

He forced himself to learn alchemy, even when it was met with harsh criticism of his superiors and family; ‘only thieves use that forsaken science’. Even when all his materials were taken, years of sneaking beneath their watchful eyes prepared him to take back - how ironic - and continue to teach himself alchemy. Even his continued lessons could not fully occupy his time, and any opportunity he had he used to learn the art.

From the transmutations circles to the forceful changing of one substance to another, it was brilliant. He knew if the stigma wasn’t present, then alchemy could provide a service unmatched to fixing the misconduct present in current society. It was difficult to learn an entirely new art, especially since magic-users were not common in his lineage, but it was well worth it when he ignited his first transmutation circle.

He practiced and practiced, until a ransaker stumbled upon the gardens where he sat.

While he had heard the faintest whispers of rumors, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to prove himself and his worth. So he packed up what meager belongings held any sort of importance and left with the enigmatic knight. He was happy to pursue something he chose for himself and happy to have escaped the cycle of corruption he would no doubt have played a part in had he stayed.

Liberation was sweet and remained that way in the following years. Living amongst the shadows was difficult but well worth it for every flash of a transmutation which proceeded his choice. He had found a place to truly call home in the underground lab his mentor had crafted through the very art he dedicated himself to.

Proving himself a capable apprentice, the knight and his partner had sent many a new recruit toward him. It was tired but rewarding; more often than not, these were common folk and he was enthralled to directly help them in ways he could never have at his family’s manor. Even for as respected as he was, he still opted to keep to himself as a side-effect of his strict studious habits which had never left.

More recruits came and left his guidance, up until he caught a glimpse of brilliant viridian scales and wide red eyes. Having a friend was...well, it was strange, given he had no one to latch onto while a slave to his family name. But that sort of companionship was nice, so he cherished it and devoted himself to not only his studies but aiding his friend in whatever way he could; after all, a dragon seeking comfort was surely a victim of the corruption within society too.

And you were no different; at least, judging by your tattered clothes when he first laid eyes on you.

At first, he didn’t know what to make of your dazed, worn form trailing behind his boss, but after introductions were exchanged he learned a bit more. He doesn’t doubt his boss wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to recruit someone down on their luck as he did with the dragon, so he tries to integrate the new recruit as he would any other. When they informed him they had no memories or even a name to call themselves by, he decided to help them in any way he could.

Time passed until you were unintentionally added as another friend to call his own. Your companionship was both interesting and concerning; for someone who had no memories you were startlingly competent at hurting yourself and you didn’t seem to care. Then his boss had sent you off to scout the lands belonging to another knight...well, he figured - hoped, really - nothing would come of it.

But he was there when his boss conjured the both of you back. It was...not a pretty sight. If it wasn’t for his boss and partner, he doubts you would’ve survived the ordeal. Yet against all odds you lived and still yearned to be useful in any way you could. It reminded him vaguely of him back at his family’s manor, yearning to be something more than just another carrier for his lineage.

Between the intermissions of your scouting missions and his and the dragon’s private research, your happy little triade would sit together and conduct simple experiments or hold bursting competitions. You never failed to appear alongside him and the dragon for a meal, even sat nestled besides him during all the seminars, writing everything down in that strange script. Even trapped beneath the village and living in hiding could never diminish the pure joy he felt spending with his friends.

Time seemed to pass by far too quickly when they began to show a keen interest in the Tower. He recalls the days he spent there soon after his boss was forcefully recruited into this new Order of knights, but he doesn’t dwell on them. If anything, he tried his damndest to extinguish their interest before it fanned into something untamable, but it was already too late; they were set to leave by any means necessary. Not even their shared boss, who they strove to impress, couldn’t halt their poorly-placed interest.

Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he grew detached from them in an effort to spare himself from the pain of speaking with a dead man, all things considered. He knew more than they did no one returned from the Tower of Fate; at least not without losing something as he did with his optimism. Since they still had no memories, he knew the only thing left to give would be their life.

As his other friend’s request, they both sought to aid in their companion’s desire to escape the confines of their home. Fitting himself with his discarded nobel robes was uncomfortable, but it saved him from being pelted with stones from the townsfolk when he purchased an illustrated map from one of the vendors. He knew they couldn’t read the modern script; it was obvious after they refused to read any current books or write in anything but those confused loopy letters, so this map should be easily legible to them.

And to think the last he saw of you was during your nighttime escape, when he and the dragon gave you your parting gifts…

When his boss and his wayward partner returned, the Tower was no longer a nightmarish obelisk against the horizon. Its visage was long gone, reduced to a pile of crumbled bricks and stone as a result of a truly massive explosion, no doubt because of his boss. Even so, when all the scouts returned and you did not accompany them, a keen dread filled his gut because he _knew_.

He had know back then, in that hidden path to the village, your retreating back would be the last time he saw you. He was thankful to be wearing his mask in that moment; not because no one could recognize him as a wayward nobel, but because it hid the tears festering in his eyes.

When he confronted his boss about your abrupt disappearance, all he got was a forlorn sigh which made it seem like the weight of the world had settled upon the small man’s shoulders. He remembered being held under the serious if forlorn stare of the knight’s plague-doctor mask, but no words were offered for a time. And then his boss simply said it was a ‘tragedy’ before leaving it at that.

Although he did not understand how his otherwise errant boss displayed his emotions, he understood enough to realize the knight was mourning in his own way. And while it was plainly obvious his boss knew more than he let on, he didn’t pester the alchemist further. Maybe it was to protect himself and what dregs of hope remained, or maybe it was because he didn’t want to upset an already unhinged man.

So he threw himself into more alchemical research, scrawled transmutation circles relentlessly, and attended all lectures with a vigor. It was a familiar feeling to be learning, but deep down he knew it was merely a distraction from his own turbulent emotions.

Every passing day when he didn’t see your face was a reminder of what he lost. Although his remaining friend never brought your leave to light, it was apparent both of them were reeling from the loss.

Even now, as he clutches the only reminder of your presence here in the Potionarium, Styx cannot comprehend _how_ you di—disappeared. Given studying has all he’s ever known, he decided to redirect his focus to learning the old script as a means of remembering your presence. Weeks had come and gone, yet he still cannot read much of anything, especially those two books you carried everywhere you went. It was all that was left of you, given your personal room had been retransmuted into a wall.

So he learns, be it alchemy or old script, because it’s all he has left. Not that he minds; he just wishes you were still there, with your earnest interest and amusing reactions to even the most basic concepts of the science. But life goes on and his is no different, struggling with strange loopy letters or concocting new potions, even constructing new methods of drawing layered transmutation circles; it’s nice, all things considered.

But for as nice as his life is, Styx finds himself reminiscing of the past few months fondly, your face at the forefront of it all.

**—**

The dragon thought being alone was his lot in life. It was all he ever knew, at least.

He doesn’t know if he was born of flesh and blood or another figure conjured by the dark magic corroding the land, but he figures his memories can’t be that important. So he instead ignores the blanks where there should be a past and instead lives day to day, as most of his brethren did; if they had no interest of the ‘before’ then surely it wasn’t important enough to stew over.

It’s an uncomplicated life of hunting and foraging enough to get by without completely eradicating the ecosystem present; ‘sustainability,’ some humans called it. If there was anything which held his interest, it was the people he saw trekking the worn paths webbing around his craggy home of a cliffside. The other dragons referred to them as pitifully weak creatures, but even so his interest was firm. After all, there had to be a reason why they preferred to join together amiably rather than out of sheer necessity as dragons often did.

Compared to the fleshy, soft exteriors of humans and other animalfolk, dragons were...arguably simple creatures. To live was to prove one’s worth, one’s strength. Stake a prosperous territory and maintain it, defend it from any intruders or be the intruder and overthrow the current retainer. The more physically capable were obviously the ones who won and the weaker were killed as a means to testify to the other’s strength: kill or be killed, as it were.

This cycle of carnage did not strictly apply to dragons alone, but everyone. Humans clad in metallic covers and wielding blades of sharpened steel would traverse the paths, some guarding a caravan of supplies or be completely alone, and they would often pique the ill-wanted attention of whatever beast’s territory they trespassed.

He remembers a few dragons he’d spoken or cooperated with die by the knight’s sword, and he remembers the bodies of the humans which were either consumed or left in plain sight as a warning. Be it dragons or other people, there was always bloodshed and he never enjoyed it as much as his brethren did. ‘To die in battle is honorable’ or something to that effect; he faintly recalls purging the words from his mind shortly after he heard them.

After establishing his own territory in a cavern nearby to a settlement, he then learned of the hardships of life. Due to his chosen proximity - better to learn more about people and how they interacted - many a knight found his home and attempted to ward him off, through threats or upholding those threats. No matter how hard he tried to be amiable, to say he didn’t want to hurt them much less continue the cycle he wanted no part in, they would always draw their weapon with a shrill screech of metal.

And it always pained him to continue the violence he sought to escape from. Whether it be by claw or his unique corrosive breath, he would always drive away his attacker, bloody and broken. It wasn’t something he was proud of; on the contrary he was just...tired. Tired to being sport to hunt, at least in the knight’s eyes. He could never escape that fact; he was a dragon and therefore a monster. It was ‘natural’.

If there was anything he learned in his cave, defending himself from his attackers, it was that power meant everything in the world. Kill or be killed, rule or be ruled over, live or die trying. So he continued the cycle, because being strong was the closest thing he could get to being free.

As time marched on, he knew the knights who challenged him only grew in number and frequency. How could it not when he learned ‘sentient’ dragons such as himself were a rarity, a diamond among rocks? He may not have understood people on a deep level, but he knew they were being rather foolish in their attempts to kill him. Why else would they feel the need to attack when he never instigated these battles, never attempted to harm another, never killed when he was more than capable?

Maybe it was foolishness, maybe it was fear, but it seemed like all those people were the same; they didn’t care whether or not he only wanted to learn about them. No; he looked like a monster and therefore needed to be eradicated. It was rather ill-witted, if he were being honest. And maybe a touch judgmental.

But if there were unique specimens like him among his draconic brethren, then surely there would be a unique specimen among the people who would see him for what he really was: a lonely soul.

And time eventually rewarded him with the small cloaked figure of a supposed knight. What was strange about this one was the fact the little man did not wield a sword but packed an arsenal of glass casings with a variety of fillings. Even when the knight heeded his words and asked for a demonstration of his ‘poisonous properties,’ he refused until the man threw one of those casings and it promptly exploded.

A small fight ensued, but he knew this one was different from the rest. For starters, the knight was gleeful and cackling as the small man jumped and vaulted through the air, thrusting bombs to and fro in a remarkable show of hit-and-run tactics. It was delightful in that the knight was obviously powerful, but not in the way he ever knew power to be shown.

Once the errant man made it known the fight was settled and thus ‘seen all that needed to be seen,’ the knight proposed an offer he simply couldn’t resist: join his underlings. It may have taken a good talk, but once it was established he would learn the very same art used against him - a power never before seen - and that he would finally have a place where he wouldn’t be hunted...Of course he accepted.

Following the knight back to his own underground lair was nice, and sneaking in during the earliest hours was easy. It was only when he was garbed in those odd emerald and magenta robes, mask firmly in place over his scaley maw, did the knight finally request a name. When it was painfully apparent he didn’t have one - your power _was_ your identity - the knight gave it all of a few seconds of thought before snapping his fingers and telling him his name would be Draak, since it meant ‘dragon’ in some other language.

But his worries of being found out for what he is quickly wore off once it became clear the knight’s other underlings didn’t care enough to see beneath his mask. So he simply lived day to day, learning the mysterious explosive art and offering his noxious breath for alchemy recipes at the behest of his new boss. Yet he wasn’t alone in all of this; he had been under the watchful eye of another acolyte by the name of Styx who, after a rather embarrassing fall whilst learning to burst, learned what he really is.

Even so, the human never told anyone else nor seemed to really care beyond general curiosity. It was a world of difference compared to most of his young life, but he was ecstatic to have finally found a place where he could just be himself, where his curiosity was rewarded rather than banished.

When he met you, he had yet to truly let go of his nervousness over meeting new folks.

As a creature who could sense the magic constantly thrumming through the land, be it either malignant like in those far-off lands or benign as it was everywhere else, he knew something was decidedly...off about you. For starters, you seemed to lack that same flow of magic everyone else had. It was as unpleasant as it was looking at a corpse, like you were a vessel and not really a person. His tentative wariness didn’t leave when you relieved the fact you had no memories.

Still, living beneath the village in the lab has provided him with a patience and empathy he never had the opportunity to use before, so he decided to place his faith in his friend who seemed eager to help you. Over time you had joined his and Styx’s pair and enlarged it into the tiniest of circles, and soon enough his worries over your curious predicament became more genuine and less about his general curiosity over how you could live as you did.

Eventually the days morphed into weeks as your triade grew closer with every passing day, and he was undoubtedly excited to have found someone else as enthralled in the art of bursting as he was. While it was undeniably humorous to watch you fall into comedic positions nearly every time you leapt, he had helped you as much as he could.

Before either he or Styx realized it, the boss had given them a scouting assignment in another knight’s territory. As one who knew only a life of struggle before, he had tried his hardest to put together a small gift for them to take in hopes they would be fine. He had found them prepping to leave and he had barely caught them, offering them a small knapsack of goods and a few words of warning; he didn’t think—didn’t want them to fend for themselves as he did for most of his life.

He spent most of that day fretting over whether or not you’d be fine, much to Styx’s muted displeasure. But when the pair were in the boiler room, asking about something or other, he had heard the telltale sound of a conjuration and he knew nothing good could come of it; the boss never liked to conjure into the lab.

The sight of them, broken and bloody in the arms of the knight, would always haunt him. It was a grim reminder of the life he managed to escape from, and seeing his dear friend nearly dead made him want to turn tail back to his cave. If he couldn’t escape that sort of thing here, why did he ever leave in the first place?

But he couldn’t leave, not when you were still healing from your ordeal and not when you woke up, expressing more concern for your mission objective than your own life. He wonders if your apathy toward yourself was a side-effect of your condition, but he muted his words before he could offer them. Either way, both you and Styx were set in your desire to stay in the alchemist’s haven, and he didn’t want to abandon his friends. Thus he remained, swearing to protect the both of you if he couldn’t help it.

Time continued to pass and he continued to try and remain ever vigilant by their sides, especially you. Maybe his hearing was above average, but he couldn’t ignore the sounds of crying through the cobbled stones separating his room from yours. He just wanted to help, but nothing seemed to work; why else would your smile never really reach your eyes?

When the black knight appeared, he had kept his hidden promise and protected his friends from the man’s spade. Even when the fight cost him his secrecy, even when you couldn’t tame your surprise, you never faltered in your desire to remain by his side. It was at that moment he would give anything to help you in turn, after you too had unknowingly gave him the only thing he’s ever wanted.

When you began to show an interest in attending those far-off lands, cursed beyond recognition, he still wanted to help you. A much as it pained him to know your desire could very well lead to your demise, he still wanted to help you, even going against the wishes of his first friend. But neither he nor Styx could stray away, preparing another gift when you would eventually leave. You were broken and he could relate; but he found a solution in the Potionarium, so maybe yours would be at the Tower of Fate.

So he let you go, waving at your back with the warmth of your abrupt hug embracing his heart. Maybe he didn’t know it would be the last he ever saw you, but he couldn’t help but hope the Tower wouldn’t claim you as it has so many others.

Even now, as he sit besides Styx in the auditorium weeks after the Tower has since fallen, he hopes you’re alive, even if you’re no longer at their sides. After all, dragons live a long time, and he’ll eventually outlive even the boy sitting next to him hastily scribbling down notes in both the current script and some in those odd, loopy letters you were so fond of. Even if it hurts to think about, he can dull the pain when the memories of you will continue to live on in him.

It’s a poor consolation to having you beside him, warm in ways he can’t aptly describe, but it’s all he has left. So he continues to live day to day, thriving in an environment which does not shun him because of what he is, and rewards his odd curiosity with the ways of a mystical art which had captivated you so much.

There are times where he still finds himself yearning to run away and never look back, not because of his inherent cowardice but so he can look for you. Perhaps it’s foolish of him to assume, but he likes to believe you aren’t quite dead even if you aren’t quite there, either. And besides, something tells him that wherever you might be, you wouldn’t want to be found. So he stays because he’s still home.

If anything, he’s happier than he’s been in a long, long time. But it still can’t compare to the joy he felt when you filled the cold emptiness at his side.

**—**

She sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time today, and as soon as the bumbling minion leaves she is quick to settle back into her chair in an undignified heap. Further cementing her downtrodden mood, she crosses her arms over her private desk before shortly slamming her face down into them, a long groan soon following the action.

A few paces away, a small cloaked man happily fiddles with a few bulbous flasks. When the groan dies out, he turns back to level a hidden stare of glee at the woman. “ _Hee hee_ , are these dumb oafs too much for you to handle, Mona?”

In response Mona simply lifts her head enough to return a stoic gaze at the little man. Letting out a derisive snort, she simply replies, “ _Ugh_ , it’s just—sometimes they never fail to surprise me with how utterly dull they are.” She raises her head and quirks a curious brow at her partner. “How do you deal with it, Plague?”

Plague Knight releases a short bout of cackles, continuously swirling the solution of his held flask all the while. “Why, with a bomb or two, of course! _Hee hee heeee_...!” And with a flourish he lifts his flask, but in his glee it prematurely stagnates and the solution promptly melts through the bottom, spilling onto the stone floor. His beaked mask looks down at the small mess and he releases a small squawk of surprise before spitting out, “Drat!”

Mona watches the display with a poorly hidden affection twisting her lips upward and coloring her pale cheeks. With a roll of her eyes, she lifts herself up and approaches the mess. A quick, messy transmutation later the mess is no longer there and she levels a fond stare at Plague Knight.

Smirking, she looks down at him and remarks, “And here I thought the minions were the clumsy ones.” She hastily peeks around the broiler room and, finding no one, quickly leans down to poke the tip of his mask, receiving an alarmed squawk in return. Smirk still firm, her eyes crinkle in joy as she states, “But at least you're  _my_ little oaf.”

Plague Knight watches her return to her desk in a stupor before manages to stutter out, “I—uh, I sup-suppose so, _heh_...” Like a lovestruck fool, he bashfully touches his mask before quickly returning his attention to the cupboards of flasks; he already fudged his concoction once, but not again!

As she opens a new notebook - since her old one was filled to the brim with nothing new left to make - Mona heaves another sigh before picking up her quill. She holds idle chit-chat with Plague Knight as he preps for a second attempt, but even so she finds her eyes drifting away from the pages of her research to the empty vats of the Dynamo Decanter. It’s strangely visceral seeing it sit lifeless and empty, no stabilizer nor even the remnant of an essence to speak of.

Mona remembers how Plague Knight had leaped down onto the same level she and the Black Knight had traversed to. She remembers how the knight shortly left after ‘fixing what he wrought’ - she snorts because _wow_ , who would’ve thought she’d fall for the third wheel plot? - and she remembers how she falls next to Plague Knight’s battered form. She even remembers how the final distillation began without their catalyst, instead one of the essences preempting the reaction without their input.

And she remembers how anguished she was when she declared she loved him—had loved him since they began this entire scheme together. And when he lost consciousness during the distillation, the essences seeking out the nearest form of stability to maintain themselves, she thought her declaration would be the last thing she ever said to him.

The fact he woke up at all was a miracle in and of itself, but to use the now-stable ultimate potion to blow the Tower of Fate to high hell and back? An absolute marvel if she ever saw one. Sure, she may have suggested the act after the two of them reconciled the fact the potion was...unnecessary, but to be able to perform alchemy to her heart’s content without worries over the knights coming for her or her love? Priceless.

Mona can’t help but halt her incessant scribbling, finding herself rereading the same hastily written sentence thrice without retaining any of it. Putting her quill down, she finds her eyes now trailing over to her personal shelf and they hone in on the tattered, barely recognizable form of a minion mask settled neatly besides her collection of books. The sight makes something unfamiliar clench in her gut; maybe sorrow, even guilt?

After all, there was a _reason_ why Plague Knight was so hesitant to reduce the Tower of Fate to rubble.

For all her complaints regarding the stupidity of the minions, Mona did hold them in esteem for their devotion to alchemy if not their loyalty to Plague Knight. Not to say many were dull as a whetstone, but there were a select few who showed a promise not unlike her own. There was Styx with his brilliant innovations to the formulation of transmutations circles, and Draak with his capacity for poisonous concoctions and a perchance for bursting, and even—

“...Do you miss them?”

Plague Knight nearly jumps in his skin at Mona’s abrupt question. He refuses to set aside his proto-solution as he adds more _fulminating powder_ to it, slowly and carefully as he responds with his own inquiry. “What? What are you talking about?”

When she doesn’t immediately answer him, coupled with the fact she would know better than to ask for his attention during a delicate procedure as the one he’s doing, Plague Knight stops the reaction when able. Setting aside his ingredients and proto-solution, his mask seeks out Mona’s eyes but instead find them decidedly looking at her shelf. Upon closer inspection, she’s looking at— _ah_. Right.

Plague Knight thought he shed his optimism along with his childhood naivete, but even so he can’t help but feel something painful tugging inside him when his eyes find the benign, thrashed minion mask. It’s alien and he doesn’t like it, but so far it only happens when he looks at the damned thing. Yet, for all the grief it’s given, it’s the only thing left he has to remember.

After all, when the Tower collapsed after his and Mona’s stunt, he had hoped against all odds they would return to the Potionaium, whole and intact along with the rest of his scouts. But they never did, and as days morphed into weeks, it became obvious they never would. He can only hope his role in the Tower’s destruction hadn’t—that he hadn’t killed them himself.

He may have been many things, but a murderer didn’t sit well with him. Even if that’s what they came to the Tower for.

He steps closer and peeks at Mona’s unwavering stare, noting how wistful it is. While it’s certainly not uncommon to see the woman in a subdued state, what was shown in her eyes was something else entirely separate from general disinterest. If he had to guess, the look in her eyes was something akin to remorse.

Plague Knight nearly jumps out of his skin when Mona’s voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Y’know...for all the crap we say about the minions being dumb as dirt, it’s not true; at least not entirely.” The woman heaves a small sigh, dark eyes never leaving the ratty visage of the mask. “Everyone has the ability to learn and better themselves; there’s always something to study, after all.”

Plague Knight says nothing but agrees with her statement nonetheless.

Rapping a gloved finger against the worn wood of her desk, Mona continues. “Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to science: there’s never a shortage of things to learn, truths to uncover. I’ve wanted to know the secrets of the universe since forever, and yet…” She releases a sardonic snort despite herself; how nauseatingly cliche.

It takes another moment for her to collect herself, the constant rapping of her finger gone. “...I guess learning some things isn’t for the best.”

Plague Knight visibly winces. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her anything—

“...Nah.” Mona sighs again, eyes finally shutting in what could be construed as a wince, too. When they reopen, they’re still firmly situated on the ragged magenta mask. “...that’s too selfish, even for me.”

More silence engulfs the room.

“...yes.” Plague Knight finds the word struggling for release from his tight, dry throat. It’s companions are quick to follow, stronger and more sure. “Yes, I miss them.”

He sighs, feeling as if the weight of the world is both lifting and settling upon his tiny shoulders. But when he looks over at his companion, he watches as she mimics his actions and feels a little less lonely in that regard.

Plague Knight still recalls how it came about, the truth. After they had escaped the crumbling Tower, after everything had been said and done, after all the stationed scouts returned to either the Potionaium or Explodatorium, Mona asked about them. At first he wanted to deny her curiosity - how could be possibly tell a story that wasn’t his? - as he did with those two minions, but how could he when she was, in a twisted sense, responsible for everything just as he was?

Two wrongs don’t make a right; at least that’s what he believed in that moment. Mona, with her brilliance, crafted a method to stabilize raw essences within the Dynamo Decanter, and he simply went and collected the ingredients. Who’s to say their actions led to—

He finds his own gaze lingering on the battered mask. Before he can spit anything else out, another derisive snort echoes faintly in the mostly empty broiler room.

“They were too damn smart for their own good,” Mona quips, but the haunted look in her otherwise stoic facade says otherwise. She shakes her head, short hair bobbing. “Too curious; of course they would’ve—” She cuts herself off, and from his position Plague Knight can hear her leather gloves tighten in accordance to her fists.

Briefly, her eyes flit over to his hidden ones before returning to the mask. “...kinda wonder if I pushed them to doing—....y’know. After I told them they were cursed. I…” She sighs again, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “...I guess I never expected it to escalate so far.”

He nods but says nothing; how can he when he knows the fault lies mostly with him? He knew from the onset there was more to that amnesiac than what he could see. He knew he was taking advantage of their position in order to use them and their tumultuous essense to his heart’s content, and he knew it was only a matter of time until they learned too much; after all, they demonstrated their science-minded thought pattern early on. It was a risk but he wasn’t going to let go of a precious, one of a kind resource because just because he was scared.

When they demonstrated an ability long-forgotten but still unanimously important to deciphering ancient alchemy, it was only natural he used that to his heart’s content, too. And then when it was established the Enchantress was searching for someone of their bearing - shattered, broken essences - of course he would keep them as a bargaining chip against that vile magician. They were an important piece on his board, whether they knew it or not.

_Anything_ was useful so he could craft his ultimate potion, anything for _her_.

Plague Knight looks over at Mona and sees himself in those tired, sharp eyes. They were partners through and through, and as a result of their goal, others had been hurt along the way. Then again, it was a price he was willing to pay. For his sake as well as hers.

But they were smart, and he knew they were aware of their importance. They could’ve played dumb all they wanted, but he was no fool. But of course he played along; if he didn’t then he ran the risk of them defecting in the pursuit of their own interests. So he let them run free in a field whose fences were placed where he wanted, often beyond their sight. After all, how could he deny exercise to a like-minded individual?

Even so, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to grow close to them; it was a disaster waiting to happen. Then again, it’s not like he acted upon any shadow of fondness he may have held. Maybe that’s why they felt the need to go and off themselves in some ill-wrought crusade to...what? Remember why they were so broken in the first place? Remember they did that to themselves?

Plague Knight can’t help but sigh again. Maybe if he had been upfront with his feelings, none of this would’ve happened. At least with Mona...but…

“How uselessly sentimental.” He looks up at Mona, who shakes her head again before leveling back onto her desk. Her irises slide from the shelf over to his mask’s lenses before wrinkling in some sort of fake cheer. “But who else is gonna remember them if we don’t?”

He can’t help but let out a strained fit of cackles, even if nothing about this is remotely funny. Maybe it is, in some twisted sense; he knew them the best out of everyone else so he should’ve known they’d pull such a stunt to get what they wanted. They were a broken, almost pathetic shadow of themselves; how could he _not_ relate…?

It was a shame their desires led them to the same place at the same time. It was a damn shame their outcomes were so grossly different.

Plague Knight’s cackles grow until it’s filling the otherwise oppressive atmosphere. Truly, it was a shame; they were two broken souls searching for the means to fix themselves, and what do they get? They get what they wanted all along, but at what cost?

Maybe their similarities festered into that fondness, and maybe that fondness is the reason he can’t look back at that time and feel anything but a keen emptiness well within his gut. They had _smiled_ at him, like that would make up for their utterly stupid decision.

His mad giggles peeter out and Mona simply watches him clutch his gut. She attempts a small smile, but they both know her smile isn’t genuine in this moment. For as stoic and calm as she presents herself, she cares too much to be unaffected by something she indirectly endorsed. Especially so after…Her dark eyes catch the mask once again, and he remembers how it came to exist in that spot on her private shelf.

She remembers how, late into the nighttime hours when nothing but bugs are awake, she and Plague Knight had been in the broiler room, waltzing as they did in her dreams. She remembers how their dance was interrupted by a shadow splitting the open air, clad in golden armor and crimson robes, scythe in one hand and a familiar magenta mask held in the other. She remembers the knight’s scathing words cutting deeper than the blade in his grasp ever could.

_“A parting gift...from the Enchantress.”_

She remembers how Plague Knight had immediately planted himself between her and the intruder, and how the reaper had tossed the ragged beaked mask in response. Even after Plague Knight had opened his arms to catch it with some surprise, the crimson knight had continued to float in silence like a sentinel, ominous and foreboding. In her love’s stupor - it was just some mask - she had demanded to know if the Enchantress and consequently, the Order still lived. But the reaper only tilted his head down at the small alchemist, who visibly flinched.

_“...hmph. The Enchantress is no more, especially after what you did, alchemist.”_

She remembers how Plague Knight did not lift his head as his reedy voice, normally scratchy and lilting, grew tight and savage. She remembers as his shoulders hunched while clutching the tattered mask close. She remembers how cold and callous his own response was.

_“Leave.”_

It was at that moment Mona knew something was clearly amiss. When the spectral knight said nothing and vanished into thin air just as he arrived, she rushed to Plague Knight’s side. His stare was unwavering as he cradled the mask in his arms, shoulders tense and stance taut.

Days passed and still Plague Knight did not release himself from his state. When those two minions came to question him about another, they did nothing but add to the tenseness of his shoulders or how tight-lipped he was throughout that time. Considering they only made it worse, Mona knew this minion was likely related to why Plague Knight was...acting strangely. So she questioned him too, in hopes of breaking him out of his funk. It failed to elicit anything up until he finally relented and told her _everything_.

For the most part, she remembers being left by her lonesome in the Potionarium, waltzing by herself while the one she sought was out and about, galavanting for their shared thesis. But for as tired as she was for being alone, she figured it was her lot in life. It was nice, being included for a change.

...she wonders if omitting those two minions from the truth is for the better, but she doesn’t tell them anything. They’re smart; they’ll figure things out eventually.

Regardless, Mona needed to be there for Plague Knight first and foremost; they’re partners after all. She isn’t stupid, but she knew herself capable of shouldering at least a fraction of the burden he inflicted upon himself. It wasn’t easy then and it certainly wasn’t easy now, especially with their mask sitting amongst her alchemical stash, staring back at their own shameful gazes.

After all, weren’t the two of them supposed to look out for the minions? And what was she doing, running off because of some broken heart, leaving them to defend for themselves? Maybe it was her leaving that instigating this whole affair, giving them an incentive to leave the Potionarium at all.

Mona looks down at Plague Knight and he returns the gesture. She offers him a smile and although she cannot see beneath his mask, she knows him well enough to notice how his stance relaxes into something notably less rigid.

Before she can remark about loosening up, Plague Knight’s words interrupt the silence. “...You’re right.” She raises a questioning brow before he quickly clarifies, “About remembering—after all, I’m positive there’s a - _hee hee_ \- lesson to be learned in all this.”

Mona watches a Plague Knight quickly turns around and begins walking back to his bench and abandoned potion before abruptly stopping. She barely hears the whispers escaping his mask, but she doesn’t say anything in response. “...it’s important to remember some things, even if it might be easier to forget.”

She still says nothing but internally winces at the irony. A small pause before he follows up with a strained, “Curse this sentimentality!”

Mona can’t help but smile at that. For as stubborn and maniacal as he is, Plague Knight isn’t an idiot. Sure, maybe he’s a bit dull when it comes to affection, but surely he’s realized the two of them see the minions with some form of fondness. Perhaps it took a tragedy for him to finally understand it, or maybe it was because they were both close and smart enough for him to truly care, but it’s difficult to banish those sorts of feelings; she would know most of all, falling for such an errant man.

Regardless, she reaches for her likewise abandoned quill before dipping it back into her inkwell, even as Plague Knight continues to mumble to himself. She begins scribbling down anything she can think of and how it could be used to further her alchemical pursuits, even if nothing could really top the explosion from the ultimate potion.

In the intermissions of her hasty drawings and lines, Mona can’t help but fondly look at Plague Knight, cackling to himself as he adds solutions to one another. And as they continue in their amiable silence, she knows that together, they can accomplish anything.

**—**

He finds them setting up camp a few miles from the village, nestled in between the forest and worn path.

The sun has dipped over the horizon, dying the sky in shades of twilight. He appears before the knights, banishes the sickening curl of fury at the one clad in brilliant scarlet plates not unlike the fiery colors draped overhead. The two of them immediately notice his likely unwelcome presence, but he pays little heed to her battle-ready stance and the blue one’s stupor. He disregards the woman and floats past her, dropping the unfamiliar weight before the tiny man.

The cerulean knight still says nothing, instead lifting a trembling arm and reaching for the handle. Just before the man’s fingers graze the dull steel, the knight looks up at him almost imploringly. He knows there’s a question in there somewhere, but he’d rather not deal with such inane matters.

“Specter Knight,” the woman commands his attention with her foreboding voice. He turns and she narrows her eyes at him in warning. “What are your intentions.” It’s not a question so much as it is a demand.

He says nothing but hears how her words are edged in the same steel held at the ready, rotund and heavy within her hands. He recalls their duel when he was still alive, and he knows the threat behind her words is very real. Even if his disdain for her was misplaced, he can’t help the bubbling fury he feels at the sight of her winged helm.

He does not reply, but turns his back on her to look at the sad man who, at one point, beat him so thoroughly it was nothing short of humiliation.

Releasing a disdainful scoff, his gravelly voice wisps around the clearing. “It sullies the grounds, so I’ve taken it upon myself to return it to its rightful owner.” He allows his mask to trail up and down the cerulean knight’s form, and he openly sneers at how pathetic the sight is. “I suppose you can’t be Shovel Knight without a _shovel_.”

A pause. Then, “But—”

He releases a low hiss. “There was no body, so either their magic burned away what was left or they are still alive somewhere.” He scoffs again as Shovel Knight flinches at his words. “Stop crying over someone you didn’t know; it’s disgusting.”

“ _Specter Knight_.” He turns and sees the woman has taken a step forward, shoulders taut. Even with the threat readily apparent his scythe remains lax in his hand. Instead, he lifts his chin at her.

“And what do I owe _this_ pleasure, _Shield Knight_?” He sneers her title and while it fails to elicit any sort of reaction save for her brows furrowing further, he notes with some satisfaction her stance has become more rigid. Turning to face her fully, his mantle billows in tandem with his growing rage. Words still falsely amiable, he taunts, “Don’t tell me you’re mourning a stranger as well—”

“ _Begone_.”

The chill of an oncoming nightfall makes itself apparent when a breeze rushes past the campsite, but he can barely feel it through the boiling rage inside him. A tense silence follows until he decides to break it, scoffing disdainfully. “You believe you have the _right_ to mourn when it was _you_ who—”

He vanishes just as the woman’s smaller shield is hurled at him. He reappears a short distance behind her, but even as her smaller one is returned while she raises her larger shield, he still does not lift his scythe; no, this is the time for a battle to be waged with words.

“The blame cannot be placed solely on me!” Shield Knight cries, eyes ablaze with a poorly hidden fury not unlike the one burning within his gut. She lunges at him and he dodges again, reappearing where he originally was, in the shadows of the trees lining the path.

Another impasse, another momentary silence before she breaks it. Voice low and scornful, she retorts, “How arrogant; it was you who enabled the possession in the first place.” Her volume grows until it is a step below a bellow, strong and sure. Eyes narrowed in both pain and fury, she states, “If you had not interfered as I had requested, then nothing would have happen—”

Something breaks within the back of his mind.

“Don’t you _dare_ blame me for _your_ folly!” If he concentrates, he can still hear the cracking of glass between his ears, a poor substitute for his still heartbeat. “If it wasn’t for you, _they would never have_ —!”

His roar echoes faintly around the clearing, silencing the idle chirping of birds and insects until it fades away into a tense silence.

Shield Knight relaxes her posture into something notably less threatening, almost as if her confusion was being perpetuated through her stance alone. Her eyes lose that harsh edge and instead gain a sympathetic look. “...Specter Knight…? Are you—”

He doesn’t - can’t - respond. How can he when to do so would be to admit how weak he is? No; he refuses to be vulnerable in front of her, even if his hatred for her was misplaced since the onset. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to hate the one truly responsible for his suffering; not in the beginning once he realized, and not even in the end as he watched them allowing themselves to be killed.

He still can’t bring himself to hate them, even if everything was their fault.

So what was he to do with all this rage, burning and lethal, within himself?

He releases a low hiss, the pressure of his short-sighted rage simmering down. “ _Hss_...If you wish to keep your head, I suggest you remain silent.”

He barely glimpses at Shield Knight, even as she abides by this threat. He can’t bear to look at her and remember everything, especially in conjunction with the hurricane of thoughts assaulting his senses. After all, he wasn’t sure when everything began to concern _them_. If he had to guess, it was after—

“Specter Knight.” At his title he turns curiously, noting how defeated Shovel Knight sounds. He knows he has no reason to stay and entertain these fools, yet there’s hardly anything else he has to attend to. So he remains, floating in the air as the cerulean knight continues in a tired voice, “A moment, please.”

More silence reigns until he finds his frustrations beginning to surface again. Snidely, he looks down at the blue knight and sneers, “Well?”

But Shovel Knight doesn’t immediately respond, insteady turning away to sift through a burlap sack behind the log he’s sat upon. The faint ringing of metal hitting metal among other miscellaneous sounds echoes faintly in the clearing, and he takes the time to glance and still see Shield Knight’s posture as rigid as ever. Resisting the urge to snort again, he returns his attention back to the cerulean knight only to have his metaphorical breath taken away.

“I believe,” Shovel Knight begins softly, standing up from his seat and looking up at him imploringly, “That this belongs to you.”

The locket catches the remaining rays of sunshine, glinting invitingly within the knight’s grasp. With it’s visage revealed, he can’t help but allow the wave of memories to crash over him as he slowly approaches, hand reaching out. As gentle as possible, he claims what was rightfully his and pulls back, drowning in the sea of recollections.

He recalls the first time he had met the robust elderly man, two thieves simply trying to get by and - be it fate or otherwise - were brought together by the same target. He recalls how the two of them grew into some of the most renowned thieves, leaving little to no trail behind in their wake of their devious deeds. He recalls meeting the man’s young son, and how he was invited to become a part of their family. He recalls swearing to do everything he could to protect his newfound family.

And then—

Rumors of an all-powerful amulet, resting at the topmost point of the Tower of Fate.

He and his companion had set out at the breaking of dawn, ascending the cursed Tower with a wellspring of vigor as if they knew this theft would be their last.

Though reanimated corpses and magic knight, they climbed until they saw the amulet for themselves, lethal in its brilliance.

A knight clad in scarlet armor, bringing with her a warning matched by the tall order of imposition she carried.

He had pulled out his sword, because how dare she undermine their efforts, how dare she threaten the very thing which would allow him to protect his family at all costs?

They fought and fought and he had to prove _which one of them was stronger_.

And then—

The Tower was crumbling and his footing was lost to the abyss waiting below, falling and falling until he wasn’t.

Buried beneath piles of obsidian bricks and broken beyond recognition, he waits with bated breath until he can meet again with the very companion he sentenced to the same fate.

An ethereal woman appears before him, and he is at her mercy while the fact pains him more than his dying body ever could.

Another imposition of order and he can do nothing as his body is brought back from the brink of the death he sought as redemption for his actions.

He continues to fight because it’s now all he knows.

A broken window, a re emergence of a boy he hasn’t seen in ages, and he can do nothing as the teen’s visage is burned away into something else entirely.

And then—

More fighting, because he now has a reason to do so.

Feelings of resentment, of rage, build and fester into something so uncontrollable and bitter it’s all he has left to guide him.

Those same feelings, burning and bright and _lethal_ , take over all his senses as he ascends the very same Tower that doomed him to his fate, all so he may have his revenge.

He learns the hard way that sacrifices are never a price too high to pay.

Soon enough he also learns to accept his servitude because it, too, is the only thing he has left.

There are times of respite, tucked in between the times of loathing and being loathed, hidden away under the perpetual nightfall of his territory, up until the sound of an explosion interrupts his solitude and piques his anger once more.

_And then_ —

He shuts the locket.

Over the past several days, he’s realized there’s yet another chapter to his cursed life, but it’s not one he enjoys reminiscing about. On the contrary, he doesn’t like to remember anything about _them_ at all; it was hard enough living with a caged wrath which has no suitable target.

After all, how could he admit he hated them when their situations were so similar?

He had watched that alchemist pry their essence from their crumpled form after they had done the same to him, he had seen the contorted faces made of inky black and crimson, he had _felt_ the utter turmoil housed within that abomination of a substance. He may have - ironically, considering his thieving ways - little understanding of alchemy, but even he knew something was wrong with them for their essence to look so...demented.

They were drowning in a sea of despair, and he could understand that sentiment. But where they had allowed the waves of that weakness to overcome them, he had instead transformed his own into a bitterness which kept him alive at any and all costs. Either way, it was more a detriment than anything remotely beneficial; at least in their case.

If his bitterness hadn’t corralled him to keep fighting day in and day out, to keep waiting for a chance to strike, to keep living even after there was no more reason to told such feelings of resentment...how else could he be here, holding this precious memento?

As painful as its weight is in his palm, serving as a reminder of what he has lost, his locket offers those memories in tandem with the hurt those snippets bring. It’s all he has left.

During his time as the Enchantress’ servant, he had learned to cherish any and all memories he carried. After all, how else would he ever be free? The only consolation to his fate had been the remnants of memories when he _was_ free. Yet now, free from the magic binding him to that hideous magician, her malignant magic now thrumming gently and almost comfortingly throughout his body, he still hurts.

Maybe it’s because he’s already lost his family, in one way or another, or because he had watched the other outcome for someone as broken as he had been. He survived, through the sheer stubbornness which he has always had, while they had - essentially - killed themselves using that same aspect.

He clutches the locket, fingers tightening around it’s familiar edges. The hinge creaks with the tiny onslaught, bringing him back into the present. Quickly, he relaxes his grasp and gently buries the golden trinket beneath his crimson mantle, almost as if indirectly apologizing. Once it’s buried beneath his cloak, he lifts hi visor up and glances between the two knights, who likewise watch him with subdued interest.

Unable to completely hide the waves of emotion from his remembrance, his gravelly voice is even more raspy as it echoes around the clearing. “...you have my thanks.”

Shovel Knight looks up, but his face remains concealed within the abyssal shadows from his helmet. He tilts his head before solemnly shaking it. Standing upright, he clasps the handle of his spade before prying it from the dirt. The knight heaves a small sigh before saying, quiet yet sure, “No; it is I who should be thanking you, Specter Knight.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the small smile breaking out on Shield Knight’s face speaks more than her words ever could. Instead, he simply nods once at the cerulean knight before drifting off, preparing to leave.

“Ah, another moment!” He turns back to Shovel Knight, who fumbles quickly before hastily requesting, “Are you certain they are—?”

Shield Knight’s smile grows tight as she quickly glances at her companion, worry etched over her features. Concern likewise litters her words as she interrupts, “Shovel Knight, don’t—”

“I wish to know if I truly killed an innocent,” is all the cerulean knight replies, head still firmly planted on his floating form. He hears Shield Knight sigh under her breath before she too redirects her attention toward him, eyes pained and requested he don’t answer.

He does, but not the way either expects. Quietly, over the roaring between his ears and the magic thrumming through his locket and body, he states, “They were not innocent.” His golden visor glances toward Shield Knight and he nods at her once. “She would know most of all.”

Shield Knight allows the smile to drop from her lips, her eyes averting themselves from Shovel Knight’s curious gaze. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. When she finally reopens her eyes, they cannot hide the sorrow nor pity held within. Her irises instead flit back to him rather than her inquisitive companion, and the sight somehow makes something unpleasant stir within his gut.

“I only knew so much,” she begins, voice emulating the time spent as a prisoner within her own body, “But I believe it was you who knew them the most of all.”

He can’t bring himself to respond.

What was there to say? That he understood them but couldn’t completely forgive them for all the destruction their latent decisions caused? That he knew from the onset the two of them were similar in ways which made his stagnant blood boil? That he witnessed them at their lowest lows, arguably the point at which someone’s character is truly revealed? That, after all this time, he _still_ can’t bring himself to hate them…?

He had _been there_ —

He had watched the spade be shoved through their chest, he had watched them accept their fate as the Tower crumbled around them, he had appeared before them before the Tower’s remains could bury them—

In that last moment, when they were so far gone he was honestly surprised to find their eyes focus on him, their gurgling breath did not encompass the words which passed over their lips.

_“I’m sorry.”_

They had _apologized to him_.

They knew what they—the Enchantress had done to him. And with their dying breath, they had apologized for everything with a smile on their face.

He still doesn’t know if that smile was genuine. He doesn’t know how someone could be happy to die a miserable, horrible death; then again, he likes to believe he felt something similar before the Enchantress appeared.

Once the Tower of Fate had crumbled into nothing but piles of obsidian bricks, he had tore through the discarded stones to...what? To see if he was truly free from the Enchantress or any remnant of her which may still exist? To see if they had truly died after being buried by proverbial tons of debris?

He likes to believe he doesn’t care.

Even so, when he found the shining handle of a particular cerulean shovel with no corpse pinned beneath its blade, he couldn’t banish the swell of...relief that someone who understood him may not be gone? Or maybe it was fear that another Enchantress may very well come into existence at another point in time? Either way, he still wishes he knew for sure what their final fate was.

Looking back at Shovel Knight, that same brilliant spade held firmly in the man’s grasp, he answers as genuinely as he can. “Everyone has a time, but I can’t say for certain they have met theirs.”

Then, to his utter bafflement, Shovel Knight bows his head before saying, “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He doesn’t reply but nods once, be it in confusion or understanding. He exchanges a lingering look with Shield Knight, whose eyes grow soft but maintain that steely edge befitting her status. Her lips tilt up in another small smile before she raises her hand in farewell. He takes that as his cue and vanishes into the open air.

As the dark magic of his teleportation ceases, he finds himself back at the crumbled relic of the Tower of Fate. Although his stoop is no more, just another pile of obsidian in this wreckage, he still finds a seat on a suitable makeshift perch before once again pulling out his locket.

He can’t help but open it again, allowing the sea of memories to crash over him once more.

This time, he allows himself to be dragged beneath the waves of their presence.

‘A victim of circumstance’...he barks out a short laugh, awkwardly standing between genuine anger and complete and utter disbelief. It echoes briefly in the open air, lost to the vibrant oranges and blues painting the twilight sky.

How horribly, terribly ironic their fates had been.

**—**

Time doesn’t heal wounds.

There is no answer to pain, but time is the closest thing we have to one.

Time does not ease pain, but merely allows us the chance to fix what we believe went wrong. Time is an opportunity gifted to us throughout our lives, and it is how we decide to use it that may lessen any pain we’ve felt or will feel. Perhaps it’s not so easily construed as hurting and being hurt, but pain will always exist so long as we are alive. To avoid it is folly, not because it spares us grief and sorrow, but because it strikes randomly and without warning.

Maybe it’s a good thing or maybe it’s a bad thing, but pain - like all things - has a beginning and an end. It lives and dies, whether by our own choices or when we vessels die, too. Maybe we’ll hold onto that pain because it provides a wellspring of will and drive, maybe we’ll shed it as soon as we’re able for fear of it weighing us down. Still, the choice is ours and ours alone.

Time doesn’t heal wounds, but it offers us a chance to remedy them ourselves.

…

It’s not an easy thing to exist, but you’ll figure out how to in time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> Anywho, I'm just gonna...drop this here. I have no excuse for why this wasn't done sooner; just know that I am a lazy oaf. Maybe the fact this epilogue's 10k+ words will make up for the radio silence? Or maybe the art will, especially after how difficult it was for a non-coding-able person like myself to get it to work? Eh.
> 
> (And _yeah_ , I'm the type of idiot who draws fanart for their own stupid stories, pfft.)
> 
> Well, all the words I wanted to say are in the notes for the previous chapter, so I guess I'll just say this: Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this ride! I know I sure did!!


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